


Unblemished Memory

by kurow



Series: Unblemished Memory [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 35,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurow/pseuds/kurow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris joins the Inquisition after Hawke leaves for Weisshaupt and strikes up an odd relationship with a certain Tevinter Altus. But Fenris is not as free from his past as he thought, and a sudden setback has Dorian taking drastic measures to save him, sending the two of them to Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skyhold

A dry, powdery snow had been falling since daybreak, and although it was nearing late afternoon, the harsh wind blowing down off the mountains had kept it from accumulating much. Fenris cursed under his breath as he drew his rough wool cloak tighter around his body against the biting cold, feet slipping inside the slightly-too-large boots he’d bought from a shifty dwarven merchant in the last town. Chills ran up and down his body, following the lines and curves of the lyrium in his skin.

 

The imposing fortress of Skyhold loomed just ahead on the mountainside. Not much farther now.

 

The thundering sound of hooves approached quickly before a group of riders overtook him and continued on to the gates ahead. One of them – a woman with high cheekbones and cropped black hair – paused for a moment as she passed, watching him with her brow furrowed in thought. When Fenris met her gaze, she pressed on ahead as if suddenly remembering something she needed to do. He paid it no mind—he was used to drawing the stares and sidelong glances of passersby, even more so since Varric published that blighted book.

 

By the time he began crossing the stone bridge leading into Skyhold, the snowfall had slacked off to almost nothing. Relief at finally reaching his destination quickened his pace. The black-haired woman stood just before the gates ahead, waiting.

 

“You are Fenris,” she stated simply once he stood before her. Her voice was harsh, with a strong Nevarran accent.

 

It was not a question, but Fenris nodded once. “I am,” he said, curious.

 

“My name is Cassandra Pentaghast,” she said. “And I believe I know why you’re here. Hawke… Hawke has left already.” Cassandra paused, worrying her bottom lip slightly. “You will want to speak with Varric. Follow me. I’ll take you to him.”

 

She turned and led him through a damp courtyard and up a flight of stairs. A sensation not unlike the prickling of crawling insects spread through his skin from the lyrium, swelling and retreating just below the surface in time with the waves of ambient magic in the air, increasing the further they went. His muscles tensed.

 

“There are a great deal of mages here,” Fenris said warily, with a vague hint of accusation.

 

“I am aware of that,” Cassandra shot back like a mother scolding a complaining child. “The Inquisitor recruited the bulk of the mage rebellion to our cause. We are concerned with things much larger than mages and templars now.”

 

Fenris conceded, well aware that she was right. The Inquisition was dealing with something that truly affected everyone, if the odd array of people bustling through the courtyard was any indication. His impression had been that the Inquisition was largely a human organization, but everywhere he looked there were elves, dwarves, and humans in relatively equal numbers. A massive Qunari stepped outside from a door to the left as they passed, the sounds of chatter and music following him out. For the first time in years Fenris felt as if he could get lost in the crowd.

 

The slightest bit of tension left his body as he followed Cassandra up another flight of stairs and inside.

 

She stopped near a table to the right of the entrance and frowned. “Usually Varric is here,” she explained, gesturing vaguely at the area in front of them. “Wait here. I will find him and send him to you.”

 

Fenris nodded in acknowledgment. He fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before deciding to move to stand near the wall where he would be out of the way.

 

The sounds of excited whispering carried across the massive hall from a group of Orlesians dressed in ridiculous finery. Each of them craned their necks to get a less-than-subtle glimpse of him, one of the men letting out an undignified squeak when Fenris made eye contact. Among their chatter he clearly made out the words “slave” and “lyruim”. He glared at the stone floor before him, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Varric’s blighted book.

 

So much for finally feeling inconspicuous.

 

-

 

Varric froze before he’d even managed to get the door a quarter of the way open. “Shit,” he mouthed, stepping back inside the door and shutting it as if entirely by reflex. Solas glanced up from where he leaned over his table, one eyebrow raised in question, but Varric paid him no mind as he scurried past and up the stairs.

 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

 

He stopped short at the alcove on the second floor, feeling some relief to see Dorian sitting there in his plush chair, hunched over a book. “Oh, good. You’re here,” Varric said, catching his breath. “I just watched an old friend of mine walk in the front door, and I… might need to warn you about him.”

 

Dorian, completely absorbed in his book, made a vague noise of acknowledgement.

 

“Listen, Sparkler, I need you to take this seriously. This particular friend is the reason my publisher refuses to sell my most famous book in the Imperium.”

 

At that, Dorian looked up. “I’m sorry, Varric. But what exactly are you getting at?”

 

“His name is Fenris, and he used to be a slave in Tevinter,” Varric continued. “So as you may imagine, he’s not the biggest fan of Magisters. In fact, he’s personally killed at least two of them. And before you remind me again that you’re not a Magister, I’d like to remind you that being an Altus is close enough as far as most people are concerned.”

 

“So you’re telling me… what, exactly?” Dorian asked with a strained expression on his face. “That I should avoid performing any evil Tevinter virgin sacrifices in front of him? I’ll try my best but sometimes I simply must sacrifice some virgins. You’ll understand.”

 

Varric didn’t laugh. Dorian frowned.

 

“Varric, you know better than anyone here that I’m not some kind of boogeyman out of a Chantry morality tale.”

 

Varric paused as that sank in. “Oh, Maker. I sound just like Mother Giselle, don’t I?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned heavily against the bookshelf. “I’m sorry, Sparkler. I’m just worried about you. I suppose he _did_ spend several years in the company of a blood mage and was usually almost something you could call civil with her, but still… the elf is a hard pill to swallow, and that likely goes double for you. So, just… be careful, alright?”

 

Dorian gave a slight amused smile. “I’ll do my best not to antagonize the poor lad,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could manage.

 

Varric sighed and pushed away from the bookshelf. “I’d appreciate that,” he replied wearily.

 

As Varric retreated back down the stairs, Dorian tried in vain to return his attention to his book. He stared at the pages before him, but the words bled together into nonsense as he mulled over what he’d just been told. Distracted, he reached for his notes and scrawled a name: _Fenris?_

 

As he stood, shutting his forgotten book and setting it aside, he tried to mentally map out the most indirect route to Cassandra’s usual haunts. He would need plenty of time to come up with a good lie as to why he needed to borrow her copy of _Tale of the Champion_.

 

 _A little research wouldn’t be completely uncalled for_ , he told himself, and it was almost convincing.

 

-

 

Try as he might to focus on something— _anything_ else—Fenris was unable to drown out the gossiping Orleasins.

 

“He must be here because he was the Champion’s lover,” one of the men whispered.

 

“ _Former_ lover,” a woman corrected, and her voice came out much louder than intended judging by the way she slapped her hands over her mouth. The rest of the group shushed her, sending cautious glances across the hall to where Fenris stood.

 

“As I understand, The Champion’s lover is now that mage who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry,” one of the other Orlesians whispered cautiously.

 

He was trying as hard as he could to choke down the frustration and anger swelling into his throat like bile when the door beside him swung open with a groan.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” a familiar voice breathed, just barely audible.

 

Fenris looked up.

 

“Elf,” Varric said stiffly, trying and failing to give him a smile, “I wish I could say I was happier to see you.” He pulled out a chair at the table and plopped gracelessly into it, gesturing at the chair across from him. “Have a seat. You’ll want to be sitting for this. It’d also be nice if you were unarmed. And possibly drunk.”

 

Fenris sat down rigidly.

 

“Shit,” Varric hissed again. “I was really looking forward to not having to do this in person.”

 

“Varric,” Fenris said, voice level. “Relax. I… I got your letter.”

 

“Right.” Varric took a deep breath. “So you know… what happened at Adamant.”

 

Fenris sighed and closed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I just want to know where Hawke is now.”

 

Varric rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands, frowning deeply. “He left for Weisshaupt a few days ago, because for some reason he thinks this shit with the Wardens is his fault,” he explained wearily. “I’ve had some contacts sniffing around out there, and let’s just say I don’t like what I’m hearing. Nobody knows what’s going on, but it isn’t good.”

 

Hawke was heading into more danger, and this time he would be too far away to do anything about it. It was unsurprising, but it still filled his mouth with sand.

 

“You said before that it would be preferable if I was drunk…” Fenris began, trailing off.

 

“It just so happens that there’s a pub here,” Varric replied. “The drinks aren’t quite as awful as the Hanged Man, but I’m sure we can find something suitable.”

 

Fenris let out a soft, bitter laugh, hardly anything more than an exhale. “Sounds like a plan. Actually, I… was thinking of staying here. With the Inquisition.”

 

“I’m actually glad to hear that.” The two stood, and Varric began leading them out the door towards the Herald’s Rest. “Listen, Elf, there’s something else I should probably tell you, and I can’t say you’ll be happy about it either.”

 

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

 

“One of the Inquisitor’s inner circle is a Tevinter Altus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I have the story mostly finished, so you can expect relatively frequent updates. Let me know what you think!


	2. The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly really surprised and overwhelmed at the amount of positive feedback I've had already?! Thank you all so much!
> 
> Fenris and Dorian meet in this chapter! .......sort of

Fenris walked quickly across the circular room, trying to choke down his anger at the way the bald elf – who he assumed to be “Chuckles”— stared after him with academic curiosity. He hated the knowing looks of people who had read Varric’s book, people he had never met who read of his past disgraces and hardships as a fun pastime, but he hated when people looked upon him as a specimen even more. It brought to mind Danarius and his vile parties, the way he was groomed and paraded before the Magisters for them to examine like someone buying livestock.

 

Shaking the memories off, he found the stairs and began ascending them to the second floor, where he’d heard there was a library. After spending much of his first two days at Skyhold keeping to himself, the idleness was beginning to wear on him. At least having something to read would feel productive. Hawke had taught him to read and write, even after they were no longer together, always patient and understanding. Learning was a struggle, but it was important to him, and he didn’t want his ability to read to waste away from disuse.

 

Cassandra’s voice carried from above into the stairwell. Fenris emerged on the second floor to see her a few feet away, handing a massive tome with what appeared to be a stab wound in the middle to a ridiculous man with a ridiculous mustache.

 

“I can understand why you would be interested in this now, after what happened at Adamant,” she said solemnly.

 

The ridiculous man gently but hastily set the book aside on a nearby table, shifting some papers so that they obscured the front cover. “Yes, well, as I said, I’d prefer not to make a fuss about it,” he replied, and there was a distinct edge of an upper class Tevinter accent in his voice. “And thank you.”

 

So this was the Altus.

 

Cassandra turned to leave, giving Fenris a cordial nod as she passed by him. Fenris walked with purpose to a nearby bookshelf and did his best to appear busy while he discreetly observed the man.

 

The fool was traipsing around in the drafty cold wearing an impractical outfit of Tevinter fashion that left part of one arm exposed to the frigid mountain air. Fenris rolled his eyes under the hood of the woolen cloak he was wrapped in. This was _definitely_ the Altus, so meticulously preened and manicured with no regard to his surroundings, as if he expected the climate to adapt to his whims.

 

When Fenris looked up again, the Altus was staring right back at him. Fenris flinched in surprise and quickly directed his attention towards the books, pretending to be very interested in a particular volume that just happened to be at eye level. Motion in his peripheral vision told him the man was approaching him. Before Fenris could properly think over the situation, he had snatched a book off the shelf at random and hurried through the nearest door.

 

Navigating the unfamiliar corridors of Skyhold proved to be a challenge, and it wasn’t until Fenris had finally found his way back to his room that he realized the book was written in a language he didn’t even recognize, let alone know how to read. Defeated, he tossed it aside and sank down onto the bed.

 

Varric had said this Altus was different; that he was a good man, his friend, to give him a chance. Fenris wouldn’t believe it until he saw it himself, but he had to admit begrudgingly that he respected Varric too much to truly antagonize the man.

 

Was that why he had fled? It felt almost instinctual, though it wasn’t the same as before, when he was running from slavery, running from his past.

 

He let his head fall back, cracking an eye open to glare at the book he was too stubborn to return.

 

-

 

Dorian watched as Fenris rushed out of the library, almost chuckling to himself. Varric had made him sound so dangerous, but here he was, scurrying off like a startled cat.

 

With a sigh, Dorian dropped back into his chair. He gave a cursory glance around the room before sliding _Tale of the Champion_ into his lap. The pages stuck together here and there as he flipped though them, around the torn edges where Cassandra had apparently stabbed a dagger through the book. He quickly skimmed each chapter, pausing to read each time he noticed Fenris’s name.

 

He was intrigued. He had heard of Fenris before, in passing, but until now had thought of him as nothing more than a rumor. Magister Danarius’s insane experiment. An impressive feat to be aspired to, or the depravity of a power-hungry madman, depending on who was talking about it.

 

To be able to match a real face to that story…

 

Dorian faltered, the page he was turning slipping from between his fingers.

 

-

 

“So, let me get this straight.” Varric rested his elbow on the table, leaning his chin into his hand. “You borrowed the book from Cassandra… so you could research him.”

 

“You should see some of the passages she has marked,” Dorian offered, doing his best to deflect. “It’s rather scandalous.”

 

“You’re avoiding the question,” Varric said with amusement.

 

Dorian sighed. “Alright, fine, you’ve rooted me out. But what did you expect me to do, after you gave me that introduction?”

 

Varric laughed. “I guess that’s fair. Weird, but fair.”

 

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Dorian replied. “Is any of this accurate?”

 

“Generally,” Varric said, waving his free hand vaguely. Dorian frowned. “Listen, if you want specifics you’ll have to be specific. Or you could, I dunno, ask him yourself.”

 

“I did tell you that he ran from me like a frightened animal, yes?”

 

“Yes, and I’m still not sure I completely believe you,” Varric replied. “Usually he’s not the type to shy away from telling anyone exactly how much they disgust him.”

 

“Odd indeed,” Dorian mused. “So in essence, you’re telling me… what, to figure it out for myself?”

 

“In essence.”

 

Dorian let out a laugh. “I’ll have you know, Master Tethras, that I’m an excellent researcher.”

 

Varric shook his head. “Research away. You really should consider talking to him though, if you can handle all the brooding,” he said. “Just… try having that conversation in a well-lit place with other people close by.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra totally has every romance scene marked and the entire Arishok duel underlined. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and I hope you're all enjoying it! Chapter 3 will be up soon (maybe tomorrow?)


	3. Sand and Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the Hissing Wastes.

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh as he tried unsuccessfully to shake the sand out of his boots as they walked. “We’ve been heading towards that camp in the distance for hours now and I’m certain we’re still not any closer,” he said.

 

“Is there a single place in all of Thedas you don’t hate?” Blackwall shot back. Fenris chuckled. Dorian sighed again, dramatically.

 

“We need to find out what the Venatori are doing out here, and we need to stop them,” Lavellan said without turning around, sounding a bit like she was scolding unruly children.

 

“I say we let the Venatori have this place,” Dorian replied. “Perhaps they’ll get lost and die of thrist. Or perhaps they’ll get tired of having sand in their boots and go back to Tevinter.”

 

“Feel free to join them,” Fenris spat.

 

Dorian opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment a wyvern crested the ridge beside them and began attacking, so he decided to drop it. He was not going to die due to being negligent in the presence of wyvern venom.

 

When they finally reached the Venatori camp, they were all a little on edge. Dorian blamed it on the atmosphere of the Hissing Wastes – being able to see nothing but emptiness for miles around coupled with the way the sand slowly got into your shoes as you walked, then in your eyes and mouth from the very air you breathed, really wore on the spirit after a while. The rhythm of battle was little off as they fought the Venatori they found there, all of them making small mistakes and not using their skills as effectively as they usually could. Even Lavellan, who always seemed so unshakable, was the worse for wear.

 

A small measure of relief came as Blackwall took down the last cultist, until a soft whimper cut through the silence that followed. The party all jerked towards the direction of the sound. Near the center of the area was a cage full of slaves, most of them cowered as close to the farthest corner as they could manage in the small space.

 

Fenris’s muscles tensed.

 

With a sigh, Lavellan approached the cage. The captives shrank back, and a young elven boy among them cried out in fear. She flinched, realized she was still holding her daggers, and hastily put them away on her back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly.

 

The slaves remained crowded to the back of the cage as she knelt down and picked the lock. “There we are,” she said, throwing the cage door open. “You’re free to go now.” She stoop up, hardly giving the newly freed slaves a second glance, and began to trudge wearily on.

 

Fenris looked back at the slaves. The confusion and fear in their eyes was all too familiar. His gaze traveled from their terrified faces to Lavellan’s retreating back, his eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling in disgust. “ _Vishante kaffas,”_ he spat.

 

Lavellan paused. “Is something wrong, Fenris?”

 

“You cannot intend to just leave them here,” Fenris said sharply, and it sounded like a warning.

 

It was the first time he had spoken to her directly – she’d heard that he had arrived at Skyhold from Cassandra, that he was joining the Inquisition officially from Cullen – and she couldn’t help but to wince at the venom in his voice. She turned on her heel to see him pacing agitatedly.

 

His markings flickered to life for just a second, before he brought them back under control and instead began wringing his hands as he paced. “Perhaps you don’t understand,” he said between gritted teeth. “They have nothing now. They’ve likely all been slaves their whole lives. _Look_ at them.” Fenris looked again at their faces: they looked exactly how Orana had looked when they found her, terrified and unable to cope without a master. He shook his head in frustration and ground out again, “You cannot intend to just leave them here.”

 

Dorian, who had found himself frozen to the spot in the wake of Fenris’s anger, forced himself to breathe normally again. “You know,” he said to Lavellan, “If the Venatori were trusting them to dig up delicate artifacts in these ruins, that likely means they have some technical skills that could be useful to the Inquisition.”

 

Fenris scoffed. “I’m sure you would love to take advantage of that, _Altus_.”

 

Dorian couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped his lips. “Funny that when someone in the South finally gets that right it’s meant to be an insult.” He took a breath to steel himself. “But no, what I meant to suggest was that the Inquisition could hire them as agents. Leliana’s been having her people investigate ruins and the like, has she not? Their experience could be valuable.”

 

_I gave her a job, Fenris._ Hawke’s voice floated up in his mind, and Fenris shook his head to dispel it, disgusted with himself to think that he’d compared that idiot Altus to Hawke.

 

“They deserve a chance,” Blackwall added. “The Inquisition could give them something they might never be able to find for themselves.”

 

Lavellan had managed to return to her usual coolly composed self, mulling the situation over silently and chewing at her lip. “Point taken,” she said. “But why don’t we ask them what they want? We’re talking about them as if they aren’t here.”

 

Dorian just barely caught the shame that flashed over Fenris’s face before it was replaced by a blank expression and an approving nod. Dorian was also vaguely aware of the way Fenris seemed to be appraising him as Lavellan shouldered past to make her offer to the former slaves.

 

-

 

Dorian rested his chin in his hand, idly poking at the dying embers of the fire with a stick simply because he need to do _something_ to keep himself awake. Lavellan had given him the first watch; and yes, she was his closest friend, but at the moment he hated her. It almost seemed pointless to keep watch at all out here, with nothing but vast emptiness in all directions. It was logical of course, but he was far too tired for logic.

 

A bit of ash floated up as he stirred the charred wood, catching the breeze directly into his face. He reflexively blew at it, but it was too late, and he was left sputtering and batting the ashes out of his moustache. Footsteps approached from behind him accompanied by a low, rumbling chuckle. Dorian let out an undignified sneeze, eliciting another, slightly louder chuckle.

 

“Smoke follows beauty,” Dorian shot back defensively, though the intended edge was softened with a sniffle.

 

Fenris crouched down nearby, posture guarded but with a half-smile on his face that was almost cordial. “That was not smoke, fool.”

 

“Technicalities,” Dorian replied with a vague wave of his hand, more concerned with scrunching his nose against the lingering itchiness.

 

They settled into an unexpectedly comfortable silence. The fire burned lower, obscuring Fenris’s expression in the dark, though Dorian could feel his stare – wary yet thoughtful.

 

“You agreed with me earlier,” Fenris said suddenly. “About the slaves.” He spoke plainly, though somehow it felt like a trap.

 

“Frankly, Lavellan wasn’t thinking, and you were right. Besides, it would be unspeakably cruel to leave anyone in this blighted place, especially those who have the good sense not to come here willingly, such as myself.”

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You are joking.”

 

“And you are testing me.” Dorian sighed and continued, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have passed if you’d met me a few months ago, before Lavellan argued with me several infuriating times. She’s nearly always right, you know. It’s repulsive.”

 

Fenris gave a quick exhale. Dorian found him difficult to read, and even more so in the dim light with his expression in the shadow.

 

“Alright, then. Would you say I passed this time?”

 

“That remains to be seen,” Fenris answered coolly. “You’re an Altus. You own slaves in the Imperium, do you not?”

 

“No, not personally, though my family does.” Dorian sighed. “Normally I might try to justify that by saying that they were always treated kindly, though I suppose that doesn’t make much of a difference to you.”

 

Fenris let out a breathy huff so bitter that Dorian felt it like a slap to the face. “Kindness is how a master keeps his slaves from having ambitions. From knowing their lives could be more than just his wishes,” he said. “Before my escape, I always believed Danarius had treated me kindly.”

 

Dorian’s eyes ran over the lyrium branded into Fenris’s skin, and felt a lead weight drop into his stomach and settle heavily there. The heavy feeling began to reach up to tighten around his throat.

 

“I met Magister Danarius once, you know,” Dorian blurted, desperate to say anything to fill the silence. “He was the type of man who leaves an impression, and by that I mean I’m quite certain he left a slime trail, much like a slug.”

 

Fenris looked less irritated than Dorian might have thought. In fact, he looked pleasantly taken aback. “You… don’t disapprove of what I did to him?”

 

“Honestly? I think you did us all a favor. He was exactly the type of fool who would wholeheartedly support Corypheus. Besides, having one less person like him in the Magisterium won’t hurt my chances of getting things to change in the Imperium,” Dorian replied. “And, frankly, meeting him only once made me feel like I needed several weeks’ worth of baths.”

 

To his surprise, Fenris gave a short but sincere laugh. “Perhaps you truly are an exception, Altus. I suppose we shall see if that is really the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story so far and I also hope at least one of you shares my irrational hatred for the Hissing Wastes.


	4. The Resort of the Weak Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a double update because I think the next two chapters are best read together. Chapter 5 will be up as soon as I finish reading over it again!

“So. Let me get this straight,” Varric began thoughtfully, “We’re going to meet with a family retainer of a Magister – who I’m assuming we don’t want to kill – and you decide to bring the guy who prides himself on having killed at least two members of the Magisterium.”

 

Fenris scoffed. “You’re referring to Danarius and Hadriana? They deserved no less and you know it.”

 

“Good man!” Dorian exclaimed in a tone he intended to sound lighthearted but that came out sounding thin and strained instead. “Who better to have at my side should this turn out to be a Venatori plot?”

 

“Fenris can strike quickly and avoid attacks even with limited space,” Lavellan offered, distracted as she covertly glanced at Dorian with worry on her face. “He’s an asset in a situation like this.”

 

“I suppose that’s fair,” Varric replied. “Let’s all just try to avoid prematurely killing anyone’s relatives, alright?”

 

“Well I’m not making any promises,” Dorian said.

 

Fenris resented the implication that he would be unable to control himself but did his best to simply stew in the resentment rather than express it. He was finding himself too distracted by the way Dorian’s arrogant facade was slipping the closer they came to Redcliffe to be truly angry about it.

 

-

 

“Shit,” Varric hissed, “It’s his father?” He was crouched down outside the tavern, peering in through a small hole formed by a knot in the wooden walls and not even trying to be subtle about it. “You sure you don’t want to see? The family resemblance is... not really there.”

 

“I’ll pass,” Fenris said plainly from where he leaned against the wall, his head titled slightly so that he could hear the voices inside more clearly but not so much that it was obvious that he was listening.

 

Fenris wasn’t exactly sure why he cared so much. He told himself he was simply making sure nothing went wrong, or at least that it was simply detached curiosity, shutting out the part of him that knew it might be something more than that.

 

Dorian’s voice grew softer from inside the tavern, as if confessing to a heinous crime. “I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves,” he said, so muffled that it was just barely audible.

 

Varric turned from his peephole and looked up at Fenris with one eyebrow raised. “That’s an issue in the Imperium, then?”

 

Fenris shook his head absently. “Usually, no,” he explained, distracted. “Only families with seats in the Magisterium would bother to care.”

 

“Because seats in the Magisterium are inherited,” Varric said with a thoughtful hum. “And that’s enough of a problem to make him leave?”

 

“Perhaps,” Fenris replied dismissively.

 

A rickety cart carrying a shipment to one of the many shops around Redcliffe village rolled by, followed closely by a group of rowdy children, yelling and laughing as they tried to jump onto the back of the wagon.

 

“Andraste’s saggy tits! You’ll spook the horse, ya damn brats!” shouted the driver. “Get outta here!”

 

Fenris scowled, straining to hear over the commotion. The sound from inside the tavern was drowned out for a few moments as the cart passed by, and only as it made it further down the road did he hear Dorian’s voice again.

 

“—tried to _change_ me,” Dorian said, his muffled voice cracking slightly as if he was in great pain.

 

And Fenris understood.

 

“I… need some air,” he said vaguely, and stalked off in the direction of the docks.

 

“We’re standing outside,” Varric pointed out in confusion. But Fenris ignored him and kept walking, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to stave off the boiling rush of fury that surged into his chest and threatened to tear him open from within.

 

The trip back to Skyhold was shrouded in an oppressive silence. Dorian maintained an unnaturally blank expression for the entire duration of the journey, hardly even blinking. Varric and the Inquisitor exchanged solemn, worried glances, but Fenris hardly noticed. He felt blinded, a volatile mixture of anger and disgust swelling through his veins with the flow of his blood, like poison crawling beneath his skin, snaking along the lines of lyrium. He choked it down, said nothing, though he gripped the reigns of his horse with fists clenched so tightly that his short nails pressing into his palm threatened to draw blood.

 

The sun was setting as they arrived at Skyhold’s gates. Dorian dismounted his horse wordlessly and rushed towards the library the second they entered, with Lavellan following close behind him.

 

“Shit,” Varric breathed.

 

Fenris had managed to curtail his burning rage into much more manageable embers along the tiresome climb into the Frostback Mountains. Exhausted as he was, he too rushed off, heading directly for his room. Josephine had given him a few bottles of an expensive Antivan brandy when he had first arrived, “for an esteemed friend of The Champion of Kirkwall”, and he intended to make good use of the last one.

 

When he passed Lavellan on the stairs to the library, she nodded at the bottle in his hand with an uncertain expression on her face.

 

“Don’t let him do anything foolish,” she said simply, and continued on her way.

 

Dorian was staring pensively out the window of his alcove, but when he saw Fenris out of the corner of his eye he began pacing agitatedly between the alcove and the railing in the center of the room. “So now you know,” he said. “The evil Magister used blood magic on his own son! Just another typical day in the Tevinter Imperium!” He threw his hands up. “Is that what you want to hear?”

 

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “Relax, fool,” he ordered, voice dripping with venom in a way that could not possibly be _less_ relaxing, though it did make Dorian stop his pacing and look up. Fenris pressed the bottle of brandy into his hand.

 

Dorian gaped at the bottle, blinking dumbly, and then at Fenris, whose expression had softened. “That… was unworthy of me,” Dorian said sheepishly. “I… don’t know what to say.”

 

“You don’t need to say anything,” Fenris replied.

 

“…Thank you.” Dorian forced his jaw to shut, and carried the bottle over to his table. “Will you stay and help me finish this? As much as I’d love to finish it all myself, I’m aware that’s not the best plan.”

 

Fenris nodded, grabbing the bottle and leaning against a shelf. He opened it, took a swig, and passed it back to Dorian.


	5. A Nudge

A pleasant fog was beginning to form in Dorian’s mind, making the day’s events so dulled at the edges they almost seemed like something from a dream. The two of them sat together at the table in the library’s alcove, simply passing the bottle back and forth. Neither had said a word in some time, content with the oddly comfortable silence that fell between them. The sun sank behind the Frostback Mountains outside and cast the room in shadow. Dorian extended his hand again in a request for more brandy, but rather than hand the bottle over, Fenris simply inverted it and held it up. Empty.

 

Dorian let out a thoughtful hum before arriving at a decision. He took a quick glance around the room, and when he was satisfied that no one was watching he grinned back at Fenris and whispered, “Wait here.”

 

He had disappeared into the stairwell before Fenris had the chance to ask any questions. Fenris relaxed back into his chair when something on the nearest bookshelf caught his eye. He reached out, nearly knocking himself over to grab the spine of the book in question.

 

_Tale of the Champion_.

 

He groaned. There was no escaping this blighted book. He began to absently pick at the raw edges of a hole in the cover, wondering exactly how many copies of the book existed and if it would be possible to burn them all, when Dorian reappeared at the top of the stairs with a bottle of something much stronger than brandy gripped in each hand.

 

“Were you so bored in my absence that you had to find something to—” Dorian paused abruptly when he got a closer look at the book, dropping the bottles clumsily on the table. He blinked a few times, and realizing how suspiciously he was behaving, cleared his throat and continued, “—read?”

 

If Fenris had noticed his odd behavior, he did not acknowledge it. “Have you read this?” he asked with narrowed eyes, waving the massive hardcover book around with one hand as easily as if it weighed nothing. Dorian couldn’t help but feel a little impressed through his mortification.

 

“I… I’ve skimmed it,” Dorian admitted guiltily, hoping it sounded nonchalant.

 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Fenris breathed, and dropped the book heavily on the table.

 

Dorian uncorked one of the bottles and handed it to him. He tipped it up and took a huge swig.

 

“Not a fan of our dear Varric’s writing, I take it?”

 

Fenris took a few more large swigs before passing the bottle back. “Just wait until ‘our dear Varric’ publishes intimate details of your life for everyone in Thedas to read.”

 

“True,” Dorian replied thoughtfully.

 

They resumed drinking in silence for a while, until Dorian felt the sobering effect of being caught with the book dissolving away into hazy warmth.

 

“You know, I’m surprised to find that Varric apparently wasn’t exaggerating your drinking habits. Self-destruction, is it? You don’t seem like the sort to indulge yourself,” Dorian said suddenly, before his sluggish brain had caught up to him. Too brash, too rude, too personal. But it was too late now.

 

“Don’t I?” Fenris replied, surprisingly unfazed. “I don’t think I need to remind you that I was a slave. My body was never truly my own before, not even while I was on the run, so why wouldn’t I indulge myself?”

 

Dorian chewed at his lip in thought. Fenris’s face was slightly flushed, but his voice had no sign of the slurring already present in Dorian’s speech. “You’re a very well-spoken drunk.”

 

Fenris smirked. Dorian reached for the neck of the bottle but missed, wrapping his hand over top of Fenris’s where he held onto the bottle. He was too drunk to really care, even when Fenris awkwardly extracted his hand from beneath Dorian’s.

 

“While I’m being audacious,” Dorian said carelessly, pausing to take another drink, “You and Hawke were intimately involved, were you not?”

 

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” Fenris hissed, wrinkling his nose.

 

Dorian immediately regretted it. “Too far? Sorry, I didn’t mean to pick at a sore spot.”

 

“Of course, because asking prying questions about a former lover is the best way to avoid picking at a sore spot.”

 

Dorian snorted a laugh despite himself.

 

“Watch yourself, Altus,” Fenris spat, though it lacked his usual bite.

 

Dorian folded his arms on top of the table, chuckling soundlessly and allowing his head to loll into the crook of his elbow. He thought he could hear the quiet sound of Fenris swallowing a few more times before the bottle was set on the table with a thump. He was berating himself inwardly for his misstep when he was pulled out of his thoughts by Fenris’s voice.

 

“We… _were_ intimately involved, but I left him.” Fenris drew a breath. “At the time, it just seemed easier to keep things as they were. I was a coward.”

 

An old memory from his time as Alexius’s pupil floated up in Dorian’s thoughts. The one who worked at the Minrathous Circle library, the one who Cole had brought up after going digging around in his mind. Rilienus. He shook his head. Best not to think about that now.

 

The notion that Fenris’s words weren’t truly meant for him to hear crossed his mind, and he asked softly, as if to avoid startling him, “Do you regret it?”

 

Fenris was silent, and Dorian looked up to see him leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering just slightly against his cheeks as he thought. He took a deep breath before answering, “Perhaps. He moved on, understandably so, but he remained a loyal friend, so I do not let it trouble me.”

 

“I can’t help but wonder why you’re telling me all this,” Dorian slurred, the effects of alcohol finally mixing with the day’s exhaustion.

 

Fenris cracked an eye open to meet Dorian’s gaze. “I believe I’ve had too much to drink,” he said as he sank down in the chair with a soft chuckle, the sound low and rumbling. Dorian could swear he felt it vibrating warm in his chest as his head lolled tiredly forward and his eyes slipped shut.

 

-

 

The sound of wings fluttering overhead roused Fenris from sleep. He forced his eyes open against the bluish early morning light that streamed in through the window, squeezing them shut and opening them again a few times. He was in the library. Dorian was draped face first over the table in front of him, still fast asleep among empty bottles and one beat up copy of _Tale of the Champion_.

 

Fenris cursed but no sound came out, his mouth impossibly dry. He pushed himself to his feet, immediately having to steady himself on the arm of the chair as it felt like lead was rolling around in his head, threatening to send him toppling over. After a moment he finally got his bearings, and with a last glance back at Dorian’s sleeping form, started down the stairs.

 

One of Leliana’s messengers stopped him at the bottom and silently handed him a rolled up note before disappearing around the corner.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off his headache, struggling to comprehend the writing through the fog in his head. It said something about Dorian fighting to get back an amulet he sold, but it made little sense to him. Confused, Fenris slipped the note into his pocket and slinked off in the direction of his room, hoping to catch at least one more hour of sleep in a real bed.

 

“I still don’t understand why you’re giving Fenris this information,” Lavellan said once she was certain he was out of earshot, leaning back from the third floor railing.

 

Leliana smirked. “Consider it a nudge,” she answered, “In one direction or another. It will be telling to see what he does with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading and I hope you enjoyed this update! Seeing your comments last time made me really happy.


	6. The Letter

Varric paced just inside the door, watching the main gate of Skyhold closely as the Inquisitor’s party returned from the field. A scout rushed over and stopped Fenris as he entered the courtyard, just as Varric had requested, waving an arm towards the main hall.

 

Time to step defenseless into the fray. Or something like that.

 

Varric moved back over to his usual spot and tried to seem casual. He began absently leafing through papers on the table in front of him, looking as interested as he possibly could in… whatever they were, as he watched Fenris approach out of the corner of his eye.

 

“You wanted to see me?”

 

“Elf, you’re here! Good!” Varric said with a poorly hidden wince that meant it was anything but good. “There’s something I… may have forgotten to tell you about.”

 

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

 

Varric sighed and produced a crumpled envelope from his pocket. “I got this a while back. It’s a letter for you from your sister.” He passed it to Fenris and explained, “Basically, she sent it to me for a lot of good reasons that I’m not going to get into because she explained them on the first page, and it’s about time I finally gave it to you.”

 

“What does she want?” Fenris asked, eyeing the letter suspiciously as if it might spontaneously catch fire and burn him.

 

“I don’t know,” Varric replied, “But just… consider reading it. And maybe, just maybe, consider giving her another chance.”

 

Fernis huffed out a breath. The paper of the envelope showed signs of having been folded and re-folded again several times over, with creased corners and smudged ink as if it had been in Varric’s pocket for ages. Fenris turned it over in his hands, noticing a date written on the back in handwriting he dimly recognized as Varania’s.

 

“You’ve had this for over a year,” Fenris observed, sounding vaguely accusatory.

 

Varric immediately became defensive. “I wasn’t exactly in the best position to give it to you when I got it,” he said. “And between being kidnapped by a Seeker and the explosion at the Conclave, I wasn’t in the best position to remember it either.”

 

Fenris’s eyes narrowed, though his expression softened. “You truly forgot about it,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

 

“I did,” Varric replied, sounding surprised, “And you’re a lot less prone to anger than I remember.”

 

“Don’t press your luck, dwarf.”

 

Varric laughed. “Don’t worry, elf. I won’t ruin your reputation with any further accusations of being a reasonable person.”

 

Fenris huffed and headed towards his room with the letter clutched firmly in his hands.

 

-

 

The letter was thick, several sheets of parchment folded together. Varania’s writing had become smaller and neater than before, and lacked the spelling mistakes he knew he himself still made when writing. He couldn’t help the swell of pride that rose in his chest, knowing that his sister was learning and overcoming the setbacks of being a former slave.

 

The first page was addressed to Varric:

 

_Master Tethras,_

_This letter is meant for my brother, but I am sending it to you for several reasons. Firstly, I do not know if he will even accept a letter from me. What I did to him was inexcusable, so I would understand if that is the case. Secondly, I am not sure exactly where he has been since the incident in Kirkwall and I worry that seeking him out would cause trouble for him. He is a wanted murder in Tevinter and despite what he may think I do not wish to put him in danger. You spoke in my defense even when I was undeserving so I believe I can trust you. I humbly request you deliver this letter to him when possible._

_Varania_

Fenris flipped the page and froze.

 

He blinked several times, eyes scanning over the script on the parchment before him, equal parts unable and unwilling to believe what he saw. He leafed through the remaining pages, barely restraining himself from crushing them in frustration.

 

Tevene.

 

Though he could recognize the sharp curves of the Tevinter writing system from his years in Danarius’s possession, he did not know how to read it.

 

He tossed the letter aside and groaned, a thousand questions rushing through his head. Why would Varania assume he could read Tevene when he’d been outside of the Imperium since his escape? Did she know he could not read it? Was she being cruel?

 

What was he supposed to do now?

 

He needed a drink.

 

On his way to the tavern his thoughts ran through a list of the people at Skyhold he knew, and whether they might be able to help. Josephine likely had connections who would be willing to translate the letter, but he was hesitant to entrust something so personal to just anyone. If he was a wanted criminal in the Imperium there could possibly be some kind of bounty offered for his capture and return to Tevinter, which was not information he wanted in unknown hands. No, a translation would not be necessary. He merely needed someone to read the letter aloud to him.

 

The voices from inside the tavern that carried across the courtyard reminded him of Krem. He had not spoken much to the boy, but from what he had heard Krem had similarly fled Tevinter for his life. He would understand, he could be discreet, and Soporati could generally read. Fenris felt relief wash over him as he pulled open the tavern door. Krem was exactly who he needed.

 

But after circling the first floor of the tavern twice over, it was clear Krem was not there.

 

“Looking for somebody, are you?” Sera called from the railing above.

 

Fenris shushed her, his eyes darting around the tavern to reassure himself nobody was paying attention as he hurried up the stairs.

 

“Alright, alright,” she said in an impossibly loud whisper, “No need to get your breeches in a knot.”

 

“Where is Krem?” he asked, sounding more urgent than intended.

 

“Bull’s man with his Chargers, yeah?” she replied. “Left this morning, I think. I hear he’s taking the Chargers out dressed like Inquisition people to make us look bigger than we are. Probably scaring some prissy noble shits along the way too, and good on him for it.”

 

“Do you know when he will be back?”

 

“Dunno, but it’s not worth much unless they go all over, right? That’ll take a while.”

 

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris hissed under his breath.

 

Sera snorted a laugh. “You sound like Dorian, with those weird words,” she said.

 

_Dorian could help_ , Fenris thought, and immediately felt disgusted at himself for even having the idea at all. He’d already told that Altus far too much about himself in his drunken foolishness. He cursed under his breath again, face twisting in revulsion.

 

“Dorian’s alright though, yeah?” Sera offered carefully, misunderstanding the reason for Fenris’s scowl. “Nothing like those other Magister types, like that Coryphenus arsehole. He talks big but that’s all just for show, innit?”

 

Fenris sighed. “Thank you,” he said, and then added dismissively, “For the information.”

 

_Dorian could help._

 

He needed to push that foolish notion from his mind. He stalked over to the bar and ordered an ale, downing it in record time. Immediately after setting the empty stein down he ordered another. As he swallowed almost all of it in one long gulp, Cabot came over and leaned on the bar across from him.

 

“You know that thing where bartenders can tell when their customers are troubled and offer them advice for their problems?” Cabot said.

 

Fenris looked up over the rim of his mug.

 

Cabot looked him in the eye. “Don’t drink it that fast.”

 

Fenris snorted. “That’s your advice?”

 

“That’s my advice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Tevene actually uses a different writing system, but, uh... it does now.  
> Also, I love Varania?! Expect to hear more from Varania.
> 
> And I hope you're all having a really nice holiday!


	7. Something in Common

Fenris spent the next day pointedly avoiding Dorian. It wasn’t much of a change; Fenris hadn’t been able to look the man in the eye since their night drinking together, and between that and the two of them being away from Skyhold at different times on missions with Lavellan, they hadn’t seen much of each other in over a week.

 

He had let Dorian much too close much too quickly. He hadn’t even been able to speak that comfortably with Hawke for months when they first met, perhaps even longer, and Hawke was no Tevinter Altus. And yet it did not disgust him as much as he wished it would.

 

Dorian noticed the avoidance, and it felt oddly familiar. It was the formula he was used to with other men back in Tevinter, though it usually took more than a friendly chat over a few drinks before they began to act as if they’d never met each other. Though he supposed the situation wasn’t so far removed, being stripped bare emotionally rather than physically.

 

Not how it typically went, but he could understand. Or at least he tried to.

 

It was beyond imagining, then, when Fenris came to the library the following day. Dorian noticed him standing there in the entrance to the alcove but continued to leaf through the book in front of him as if he hadn’t, because that was how this worked. Fenris shifted from one foot to the other a few times as Dorian continued to politely ignore him.

 

What was he doing there?

 

“Altus,” Fenris said at last, impatiently. “Dorian.”

 

Dorian looked up from his book in feigned surprise. “Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he said, not really able to hide the confusion in his voice. He carelessly set his book aside, his eyes never leaving Fenris.

 

Fenris shifted feet again. He looked awkward, out of place, and maybe a little small. Dorian didn’t know what to make of it. Fenris was silent for a moment, as if working out some complex formula in his mind. “I… I would like to request your assistance.”

 

_Oddly formal_ , Dorian noted. Instead he replied, “I’m listening.”

 

“I received a letter written in Tevene, and I… I need you to read it to me,” Fenris said quietly, avoiding eye contact.

 

“But I know you understand Tevene, and I thought you could read,” Dorian replied in confusion.

 

An odd expression that almost looked like shame flashed across Fenris’s face before it was replaced with an irritated scowl. “I _can_ read,” he shot back defensively. “But only Trade Tongue.”

 

Dorian blinked, and then the realization set in. “Because you couldn’t learn until you were free, in Kirkwall. With Hawke.”

 

“Yes,” Fenris replied, body tensing in agitation, though he was able to make eye contact again as he settled into an emotion more comfortable for him. “Now if you would stop antagonizing me and tell me if you’ll help or not…”

 

“Yes, sorry, of course I’ll help,” Dorian answered hastily.

 

Fenris pulled a crumpled stack of paper from his pocket and carefully unfolded it before handing it over and taking a seat in the chair on his side of the table.

 

Dorian glanced down at the pages in his hands, and then up again. “It really wasn’t my intention to antagonize you, Fenris. I simply wasn’t thinking.”

 

“Just read the letter,” Fenris said with a dismissive wave of his hand, though he relaxed somewhat in relief.

 

“ _To my brother_ ,” Dorian read in Tevene, “ _I am writing this letter in our language_ —” Dorian noticed the way Fenris’s face twitched at the phrase ‘our language,’ and almost lost his place. “— _because, while I trust Master Tethras to give you this letter, I do not trust him not to read it. I’ve had time to think since our meeting in Kirkwall, and I know now that what I did to you was inexcusable. You must understand, brother, that freedom is not always kind to those who have been slaves all their lives. When our mother—_ ”

 

Dorian faltered. “Are you certain you want me reading this?” he interjected, frowning at the page.

 

“Do I have a choice, Altus?” Fenris shot back.

 

_Back to the title again_ , Dorian thought. He sighed, and continued to read. “ _When our mother died, I was forced to do things I was not proud of just to survive. And I blamed you. Why wouldn’t I? I was young, and I only knew that you were the one who had put me in this situation. Mother was always so thankful to you, but she knew better than I ever could how to be free._

 

“ _I was considering selling myself back into slavery when Magister Danarius offered to make me his apprentice if I lead him to you. It was inexcusable, and I know that now, but you must understand I did not do it out of malice. I’m sorry, brother, and I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me. We had always been close as children, and even though that was another life, I want nothing more than your forgiveness._ ”

 

Fenris drew a sharp breath.

 

Dorian paused and looked up. “Are you alright?”

 

Fenris tried to wrinkle his nose in irritation, but there was no heart in it. “I’m not made of glass,” he said. “There are still two more pages, are there not?”

 

“Of course,” Dorian replied, and continued reading. The next two pages were essentially an update: Varania was living in Minrathous, and had returned to working as a tailor with surprising success. By some stroke of luck, her work had become popular among some lower class mages, and so she had been able to open her own shop. Fenris listened with his eyes closed, giving the occasional small contented nod.

 

“You’re proud of her,” Dorian observed after he had finished reading.

 

“I am,” Fenris admitted. He took a deep breath and went silent for a moment before the words came spilling out, as easily as they had the last time they spoke, only this time without the help of alcohol. “I would have killed her, back when she lead Danarius to me, if Hawke and Varric had not talked me out of it.”

 

Dorian chewed at the inside of his lip. “I… think I can understand that. It’s easy to trust family instinctively, is it not? And somehow it hurts more than anything else when that trust is betrayed.”

 

Fenris glanced up. “Are you suggesting we have something in common, Altus?”

 

“I would never,” Dorian said with a wry smile.

 

“Dorian.” Fenris opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, unsure.

 

Dorian simply waited, wondering when he’d become so uncharacteristically patient.

 

Fenris collected himself, and tried again. “Your father…”

 

“My father wanted an ideal, and he got me,” Dorian supplied, bitterly. “You know how the upper echelons of Tevinter get when you won’t just do exactly what they want you to do.”

 

Fenris shook his head. “You were right to leave. Tevinter is a poison.”

 

Dorian sighed. “You know, I truly believe that not everything there is bad. And I also believe the rest can be fixed, if the right people make an effort.”

 

“I do not think I agree, but perhaps you are right,” Fenris replied. “You sound a bit like Hawke, always wanting to fix an unresolvable mess.” He licked his lips absently, and Dorian’s eyes were drawn to it.

 

“I think it’s worth a try,” Dorian said, wondering why his own voice sounded so far away. “Sometimes even unlikely things work out.”

 

“Perhaps,” Fenris said, and Dorian swore he could feel the words running up his spine. “I believe I am willing to see.”

 

Dorian was almost entirely certain the subject had changed, though he didn’t know when the conversation had shifted or how. The air felt heavier all of a sudden, forcing Dorian’s breath to be shorter and his face to heat up. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if Alexius was playing around with time again.

 

Suddenly, Fenris stood. “I appreciate your help,” he said plainly, picking up the letter from the table and leaving without another word.

 

Dorian stared after him in bewilderment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ................I edited this instead of sleeping.
> 
> The next chapter is kind of the beginning of some Major Things, and it will probably be up soon because I actually sorta like it and I have absolutely no restraint.


	8. The Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not posting updates too quickly... *sweats*

“So,” Varric said in that tone of voice everyone seemed to use when they were about to pry into your private affairs, “I hear you’ve been spending time with a certain elf.”

 

Dorian looked up from where he was taking notes on a book Leliana’s people had generously pilfered from the Magisterial Library for him. “I would hardly say Solas spends any more time with me than he does with anybody else,” he replied evasively.

 

Varric barked out a surprised laugh. “You and I both know the elf I’m referring to is a bit angstier than our dear Chuckles.”

 

“Your voice carries,” Solas called up from below. “And I do wish you’d stop calling me that.”

 

“I’ll think about it on the condition that you stop calling me ‘child of the stone’,” Varric called back. “Anyway, Sparkler, I need details.” He leaned his elbows on the table, tapping his fingertips together greedily.

 

“I honestly don’t know what you’re on about, Varric,” Dorian said.

 

“Fine, have it your way. But if you don’t give me details I’ll just have to make something up.”

 

Dorian opened his mouth to protest when a loud, hissing boom rang out from somewhere in the distance. He jumped back slightly in alarm as a light the sickly green colour of the rifts poured in through every window like water into a sinking ship.

 

“Well,” Varric said. “That can’t be good.”

 

-

 

Fenris was sitting on the crude wooden stool in his room, cleaning his sword, when the first wave of ambient magic crackled like static through the air. It was similar to the way it felt to be near the rifts, but there was something much more intense and sinister about it, snaking deep below his skin along the lyrium embedded there, igniting it like fire.

 

When the second wave of magic washed over him a moment later he felt his muscles seize up even though he had braced himself for it. The sword fell from his hands, clattering to the floor. His stomach seemed to flip over and twist about itself as his head spun. A cry of pain tried to wrench past his lips, but no sound came out. He managed to drag himself over to the bed before the third wave hit, sending him crumpling down, his vision going black.

 

_“Leeeeto!” the little girl cried, rushing across the yard in a dirty sackcloth dress with tears streaming down her face._

_Insects buzzed in the grass. The air felt thick and his vision was hazy, blurred at the edges. Was it because of the summer heat? The sun beat down overhead. Sweat stung his eyes._

_He caught the little girl in his arms, almost face-to-face to her without having to kneel down. There was an odd smell he couldn’t quite place, until the breeze caught a strand of her red hair and lifted the scorched tips into his line of sight. Fear and anger surged in his chest. He pushed her gently back to arms’ length to get a look at her. There was a small burn angled up from the base of her neck on one side, already bubbling with blisters. He gently squeezed her shoulders with skinny, unmarked hands._

…Unmarked?

_“Who did this to you?” he demanded, choking on the bitterness in his words._

_“Nobody,” she sobbed, wiping at her nose with stubby fingers._

_“Nobody?”_

_“I didn’t mean to!” she cried, sniffling. “The fire came out of my hands. I don’t understand! What’s happening to me, Leto?”_

_He sighed in relief and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Don’t be scared, Varania. It’ll be ok.”_

The scene dissolved, shifting into a white throbbing pain behind his eyelids. Fenris groaned and managed to roll over. His body felt impossibly heavy, though the pain began to dull and subside, lulling him back into darkness.

 

_“What do you look so smug about?” the woman asked without even glancing up at him as she scrubbed the floor, wringing out a rag into a bucket with raw and gnarled fingers._

_“My little sister is a mage,” he bragged, hands on his skinny hips. “The Magister will free her and then she’ll free me and momma too.”_

_The woman snorted under her breath. “The Magister will do that, will he? Ha! The Magister doesn’t care about your knife-eared little sister,” she said bitterly, looking up at him at last. “And how do you think I heat the water for the wash, huh, boy?” She held up her hand and ignited a spark in her palm._

_His eyes widened._

_“That’s right, boy. I’m a mage. Half the house slaves are mages. You’ll never be free again, so you best get that idea out of your stupid little head,” she spat. “Save yourself a lot of disappointment later. Now scram. I’ve got work to do.”_

_He scowled, his hands forming fists by his sides. “What do you know, anyway?” he yelled, turning to rush out of the hall before the tears stinging at the backs of his eyes could push their way out._

_Freedom._

_Freedom._

_The jungle stretched out before him, the mist heavier than ever, blurring everything he could see to the point that it was almost unrecognizable. He pretended to be one of those Fog Warriors momma had told him stories about, swinging the branch clutched in his chubby little hands as if it was a sword._

_He wasn’t afraid. He would get big and strong and protect momma from the ‘Vints and the Oxmen both. They’d never have to worry again, never have to cower in the cellar while the village was raided. He’d never have to see her shed silent tears as she prayed their meager hut would still be standing after the attacks, never have to worry about losing her the way he lost papa._

_He did his best to give a mighty war cry as he lunged at a stump with his pretend blade, smashing the rotting edges of the wood to pieces._

_“No! Don’t you touch him!” screamed momma’s voice from somewhere._

_Where?_

_A man scooped him up before he even had a moment to react, slinging him over his shoulder and yelling something to the others. The pretend sword slipped from his grasp. He struggled in the man’s grip, kicking as hard as he could, but it was no use. The man carried him closer to the sound of momma’s screams._

_“No! Take me, take everything I have, but please leave my son!”_

_“Quiet!” the man carrying him barked. He heard a thump, and momma’s screaming stopped._

-

“Uh… excuse me,” a muffled voice called from somewhere in the distance. A door creaked slowly open. Fenris could feel his body lying in his bed, though no matter how hard he struggled, he could not make it move at all.

 

“Excuse me?” the voice came again, clearer this time. Closer. “Ser… Fenris?”

 

The lyrium in his skin still burned, but the intensity was waning. The sweat felt cool on his face. His eyelids fluttered.

 

“Maker! Are… are you alright?” the voice asked, distressed. A few moments of heavy silence passed, but still Fenris could not move.

 

“I… I’ll take you to the infirmary!” the voice said, rushed with panic.

 

Arms slipped under Fenris’s back. He tried in vain to sit up as the arms struggled in vain to lift him.

 

“How in Andraste’s name is an elf so heavy?” the voice ground out against the strain. The arms slid back out from beneath him. “I… I’ll… I’ll get Commander Cullen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you liked the flashbacks in this chapter, because from here on there will be more of them. Kind of a lot more.


	9. After the Battle

Cullen shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other by the infirmary door. The healer gave another dose of medicine to Fenris, who swallowed it quickly with a cringe at the taste. As the healer took the measuring spoon from Fenris and left, Cullen approached the bed slowly, unsure of what to say. He remembered Fenris from his time in Kirkwall, and he’d spoken to him a few times since he’d come to the Inquisition, but he simply had no idea if expressing concern for him would be welcome or appropriate.

 

But he needed to say _something_. “Are you certain you’re alright?” he asked at last.

 

Fenris was sitting up in the bed stiffly, face silhouetted by the bluish early morning light that streamed in through the window. “I’m fine,” he said plainly.

 

“Of course.” Cullen shifted again. “I suppose I’m just surprised that you were able to sleep through all of that chaos last night.”

 

Fenris rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows, chasing away the lingering headache. “What happened, exactly?”

 

“Corypheus reopened the breach. Most of our forces are still in the Arbor Wilds, but the Inquisitor managed to take him down with nothing but a small team. I believe she used the mark to tear him apart and send him into the Fade.”

 

“Is that all?” Fenris deadpanned. Cullen laughed.

 

“Josephine is planning a celebration for tonight, and it has her positively in a frenzy. You should attend, if you’re feeling well enough,” Cullen said, his upper lip curling in an amicable smile.

 

“I may just do that,” Fenris said with a careful nod. “Thank you, Commander.”

 

Cullen nodded back and turned to leave, before hesitating and turning around again. “A lot of people have been asking after your well-being, you know.”

 

“Varric, I presume?” Fenris replied absently.

 

“Yes, Varric, and probably everyone else you could imagine. Even Dorian, of all people,” Cullen said incredulously. “He was particularly persistent, in fact.”

 

Fenris’s mouth twitched, just barely. Cullen wasn’t sure what to make of it. He gave Fenris another friendly nod, wished him good health, and took his leave.

 

He stopped one of the healers on his way out. “Are you certain he’s alright?” he whispered.

 

She glanced over at Fenris and then back at Cullen. “As I said, Commander, I can’t find nothing wrong with him,” she whispered back. “He’s Tevinter, yeah? Can’t be used to living in this kind of cold. I’d wager it was just a minor illness from that, Ser. I’ll have him good as new soon.”

 

Cullen thanked her and stepped outside, pulling the door shut gently so as to not wake any of the patients. He turned around and almost crashed directly into Dorian.

 

“Commander Cullen!” Dorian said, pitch high and demeanor flustered. “Fancy seeing you here!”

 

“Right,” Cullen replied, unconvinced. “The healers say he’s fine. Apparently it was just the cold getting to him.” He patted Dorian on the shoulder. “Leave him to rest for now. I have a feeling you’ll see him later.”

 

The cold.

 

It struck Dorian as odd, but he had to admit it was entirely possible that it was that simple. He shrugged, deciding for now that it was best to just accept it. Nobody likes a pessimist.

 

-

 

“Elf! You’re looking better,” Varric said jovially, pressing a mug of ale into Fenris’s hands. “I hear you slept through the battle with Corypheus.”

 

Fenris groaned. “And no one here intends to let me forget that.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Varric said with a chuckle, “You can read all about it in the book I’m writing. Lavellan insisted.”

 

“I suppose the blatant falsehoods would make me feel as if I had really been there,” Fenris deadpanned. Sera cackled wildly from somewhere near the end of the table.

 

“Hey! You know absolutely everything I write is true.”

 

“Of course it is, dwarf,” Fenris replied. He took a sip of the ale, noting that it was less disgusting than what was usually available at Skyhold as his eyes scanned over the room.

 

Dorian stood at the end of the opposite table, chatting casually with Lavellan. Fenris set his ale down, not really paying much attention to where he left it, and headed in that direction as if pulled by some kind of magnetic force.

 

Varric crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat in satisfaction. “Told you,” he said smugly to Blackwall, once he felt certain Fenris was out of earshot.

 

Blackwall shook his head. “Quit bluffing. He could be going to talk with anyone over there, for all you know.”

 

Fenris paused, lingering about halfway down the table as Lavellan and Dorian talked, pretending to be very interested in a tray of petits fours. He could see the two clearly in his peripheral vision, with the way Dorian gestured so grandiosely. Fenris rolled his eyes.

 

Lavellan eventually left, gravitating towards Josephine and Leliana. Dorian met his gaze and gave him a warm, if not sheepish, smile.

 

“I hear you’ve been ill,” Dorian said as Fenris approached, concern seeping into his voice.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Dorian replied. “You didn’t miss much, anyway. Only the great Inquisitor saving the entire known world from an ancient and unspeakable evil.”

 

“I’m sure she’ll do it again soon,” Fenris said with a shrug.

 

Dorian laughed heartily. “Personally, I’d very much like a break from imminent doom after all that.”

 

Fenris rested one hand absently on the table to his left, not missing the way Dorian’s gaze flitted to it. “I heard you’re going back to Tevinter,” he said simply.

 

“So eager to be rid of me?” Dorian said with a grin, though his expression looked guarded. “Sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be leaving for a while now.”

 

“Are you staying for any particular reason?” Fenris asked.

 

Dorian opened his mouth and quickly shut it again. “…Let’s just say my reasons are my own. What about you? Will you be staying here?”

 

“I intend to stay for the time being,” Fenris replied, his gaze on Dorian unwavering, “For reasons of my own.”

 

“Well isn’t that fair!”

 

Dorian gave a laugh and leaned against the table on one hand, resting it casually but intentionally close to Fenris’s own hand, the tip of his pointer finger taking the space between Fenris’s ring and pinkie fingers. Their skin wasn’t touching, but Dorian could feel the subtle way the lyrium seemed to reach out and pull gently at the magic in his body. It was not unpleasant, perhaps even a little alluring.

 

The dark look in Fenris’s eyes when Dorian looked back up caught him off guard. It was both familiar and unfamiliar, the way his heartbeat sped up like the heroines in those frivolous romance novels Cassandra was always trying to get him to read.

 

When Fenris spoke again his voice sounded deeper and rougher, and Dorian felt as if all of the air had rushed out of his lungs. “I will see you tomorrow,” Fenris said pointedly, leaning in slightly closer. And with that, he turned away, dragging the tips of his fingers deliberately over Dorian’s hand as he did, and disappeared into the crowd.

 

Fenris took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the hypersensitivity in his skin, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of Dorian on his fingertips. As he left the main hall he thought he heard Varric insisting that Blackwall owed him a sovereign, but he had other concerns.

 

Once back in his room, he dug around through his belongings until he found the note he was looking for. The meaning hadn’t sunk in when he’d first read it, exhausted and hung over as he was, but when Dorian mentioned his eventual return to Tevinter, it finally struck him.

 

Dorian had sold his birthright.

 

Fenris knew how important possessing a birthright was in the Imperium. He also knew Dorian would have a much harder time moving freely in Tevinter without proof of his status, let alone having any kind of power to fight for the reforms he was always talking about. It would not be possible, not without Dorian’s father petitioning the Magisterium in his name to have a new birthright issued, and the likelihood of that happening given the current state of their relationship seemed slim at best. And clearly, getting the birthright back from the merchant had not been working out.

 

He read over the note a few times, to ensure he understood the details. It seemed he would be paying a visit to Val Royeaux in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Inquisitor voice* I love tiny cakes.
> 
> I can't decide exactly how important birthrights are supposed to be based on what is said in the game, so for the sake of plot I'm assuming they function as a kind of ID/passport/proof of social class (which would be really important in a society as strictly structured as Tevinter).


	10. The Magister's Birthright

Even behind the ridiculous mask, Fenris could feel the way the Orlesian merchant eyed him suspiciously when he stepped inside the doorway. An elf in Val Royeaux would be watched with contempt and distrust even simply walking on the streets of the Summer Bazaar, let alone in a high-end shop.

 

“May I help you, monsieur?” Ponchard asked with false cheerfulness.

 

“I believe you were sold an item that you have no right to possess,” Fenris said bluntly.

 

“I’m afraid I do not know what you are talking about, and if you are not here to do business I must politely ask you to leave.” Ponchard gestured dismissively towards the exit.

 

“An Altus of Tevinter sold it to you,” Fenris pressed on. “An Imperial birthright amulet.”

 

“Ah,” Ponchard replied, holding his ground, “I’m afraid that item is not for sale.”

 

“Then I suppose it is a good thing that I’m not asking you to sell it to me.”

 

Ponchard laughed humorlessly. “So this is Monsieur Pavus’s response? Sending an elven thug to my shop to steal from me? I’m afraid he’ll have to do better than that.”

 

“Will he?” Fenris asked, his lyrium brands flashing to life.

 

Ponchard stepped back, but Fenris lunged forward immediately, phasing a hand into the man’s throat and giving his windpipe a squeeze. Ponchard’s eyes widened in panic. He clawed desperately at Fenris’s arm, but his hands only passed through it as if he had tried to grasp the air.

 

“I do not have it here!” he choked out frantically.

 

Fenris kept his grip steady, not tight enough to truly hurt Ponchard, but more than enough to frighten him. He glared unwaveringly past the eyeholes of the man’s mask and took half a step closer.

 

“Fine, fine!” Ponchard gasped. Slowly, Fenris loosened his grip and withdrew his hand, leaving Ponchard coughing and sputtering. “You’ve won! I will have it delivered to Skyhold immediately!”

 

“If the amulet is not there within one day, you can expect to see me again,” Fenris warned as he calmed his markings and left.

 

As Fenris rounded the corner outside of the shop, a spell of dizziness overtook him. The world spun around him, his legs faltering, forcing him to lean heavily against a nearby wall for support. But it passed as quickly as it had come. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and started on the trek back to Skyhold.

 

-

 

True to his word, the amulet was delivered to Skyhold that evening, not long at all after Fenris had arrived back. One of Leliana’s people intercepted the messenger on his way up the mountain and brought the package to him.

 

The amulet was wrapped in a strip of cotton, and he unwound the cloth to check it, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It seemed Ponchard hadn’t tried to cheat him – it was definitely a genuine Magisterial birthright. He knew, because the Pavus birthright was not so different from Danarius’s.

 

The thought made Fenris’s stomach turn. Dorian was not Danarius. Dorian was _nothing_ like Danarius.

 

He slipped the birthright into a pocket at his belt and headed for the library.

 

Dorian was there as expected, studiously searching for a book on a nearby shelf when Fenris emerged from the stairwell.

 

“I have something for you,” Fenris said.

 

“You… got me a present?” Dorian asked in disbelief. “Should I be worried?”

 

His incredulous expression became one of shock when Fenris took his hand and placed the Pavus birthright in his palm. Dorian blinked a few times as if trying to wake from a dream.

 

“This is my birthright,” he said finally, stunned. “How did you get it? How did you even know about it?”

 

“Leliana heard you arguing with the merchant, apparently.”

 

Dorian sighed. “Of course she did.” He turned the amulet over in his hands. “But that only answers one question.”

 

“I’m certain you know as well as anyone that people find my appearance intimidating,” Fenris replied plainly.

 

“I suppose that’s true,” Dorian said, his voice sounding strained. “But you needn’t have done that. I could have gotten it back myself.”

 

“Could you?” Fenris replied, voice level. “It didn’t sound like you were very successful.”

 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian breathed. “ _I_ sold it — getting it back was my responsibility! No one should have done this for me, least of all you.”

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes, though Dorian couldn’t place what emotion was written on his face.

 

Dorian took a deep breath. “And I’m being an ass, aren’t I?” He glanced down at the amulet in his hands before meeting Fenris’s gaze again. “I apologize. This wasn’t your problem and yet you helped me anyway. I am thankful, even if I blunder about like a fool rather than showing it.”

 

“I understand,” Fenris said softly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Fenris snorted, almost a laugh. His gaze remained locked with Dorian’s, and Dorian could swear there was a fondness in it.

 

Something tense and palpable was hanging in the air between them. Normally Dorian would not have hesitated, but this time there was a voice he couldn’t shake in the back of his mind screaming at him not to spoil this, whatever ‘this’ was. He licked his lips nervously, his gaze flitting between Fenris’s eyes and mouth as he rifled through his head for something, anything, he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot.

 

But before he had a chance to think of anything at all, Fenris took a step forward, pressing their lips firmly together. Dorian inhaled sharply at the contact before allowing himself to relax into it. Fenris pinned Dorian back against the bookshelf, though he was not forceful, leaving Dorian a way out should he want it.

 

Although a way out was the furthest thing from his mind.

 

Dorian rested one hand on Fenris’s hip, and slid the other up Fenris’s back and into the hair at the base of his neck. The texture of his hair was coarser than Dorian might have expected, but he liked the way it felt between his fingers, running them through it absently as he leaned into the kiss. Fenris’s hands remained resting heavily on Dorian’s upper arms, as if he was too nervous or too distracted to move them.

 

It was Fenris who pulled away first, looking him over with pupils wide, an attractive smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. His rough hands slid slowly down along Dorian’s arms, sending an embarrassing rush of sensation through his body. Dorian’s eyes slipped closed.

 

_What am I, some kind of blushing virginal maiden?_ he chided himself internally.

 

When he opened his eyes again, Fenris had taken half a step back, his gaze scanning over Dorian’s face as if considering something. Dorian simply stood there, fighting back against his every impatient urge with all his strength. He had to show Fenris that he could be better than that, and he was at least as stubborn as he was impatient.

 

A few moments passed, heavy and slow, their breathing seeming to echo through the tower.

 

“I will see you tomorrow,” Fenris said finally, giving Dorian a knowing look. He lingered for a moment before disappearing down the stairs.

 

Dorian let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

-

 

The staircase leading down from the library suddenly felt impossibly long. Fenris’s heart had been beating faster since before he initiated the kiss, but now it felt strange, shallow and heavy.

 

In fact, his entire body felt oddly heavy.

 

The heaviness made him feel unbalanced, forcing him to stop and lean against the wall near the bottom of the stairs to steady himself. He closed his eyes, head spinning. Each breath he took felt insubstantial, ineffective.

 

After a few moments he pushed away from the wall and continued on, though he wasn’t feeling much better. He was infinitely thankful that Solas’s disappearance meant there was no one waiting in the room below to trouble him with questions about his wellbeing.

 

He made it back to his room without incident. Exhausted and drenched in a cold sweat, he fell into bed and immediately slipped into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It bothers me that you can't help Dorian get his birthright back unless your Inquisitor is in a romance with him, so here's Fenris doing it.
> 
> And because it's officially New Year's Eve where I am, Happy New Year! And thank you all again for reading!


	11. Scattered Glyphs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!! : The first paragraph of this chapter has a very short but relatively graphic description of how Fenris's markings were created. I don't think it's that bad, but I don't want you to be blindsided by it either.

_Molten, white hot, the lyrium was poured into the grooves left where thin strips of his top layer of skin had been cut and peeled away in intricate, swirling patterns. The pain as it hit his partially healed flesh was beyond anything he’d ever felt. He wanted to scream, to cry out, to run – anything, but the agony was too much. It overwhelmed him, freezing him in place to the point where it began to feel like he was leaving his body – like he was watching it all happen from somewhere far off in the distance, away from the sharp smells of metal and burning flesh and the lingering sickly sweetness of congealing blood._

_“Keep him from biting his tongue!” a man’s voice called frantically from somewhere far away, echoing like a dream._

_His mother would see freedom again. His sister could have her own life._

_He thought of his family and entered a state of nearly euphoric calm. His vision flashed white, before slowly fading into nothing. Nothing but the burning, and the pain._

 

-

 

A knock at the door startled Fenris awake. He shot up in bed, relaxing as he took in his surroundings. He wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling groggy but no worse for wear. The knocking came again.

 

An Inquisition soldier stood on the other side of the door when he finally opened it. “Inquisitor Lavellan requests that you accompany her to the Exalted Plains today,” the soldier said with a polite bow of her head.

 

“Tell her I’ll be right there,” Fenris replied.

 

“Of course. Meet with her party at the stables, if you please, Ser,” she said, bowing again as she hurried off.

 

-

 

“Darling, you could simply commission a portrait of our Elven companion,” Vivienne stated, voice smooth as ever. “Then perhaps you could pay attention rather than leading your horse into the river.”

 

Dorian sputtered, immediately wrenching his gaze away from Fenris to see that he really was allowing his horse to veer off towards the steep riverbank. With a curse under his breath, he pulled the reigns back just in time to ensure his horse didn’t take him stumbling into the water. Fenris chuckled.

 

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian said with false nonchalance.

 

“Of course you don’t, darling,”

 

“Fool,” Fenris said in a tone that would have offended Dorian had it not sounded so oddly affectionate.

 

He _had_ been staring, not that he would ever admit it to anyone. Fenris was undeniably attractive, and the events of the previous night were close in the back of Dorian’s mind – but it was more than that. Something about Fenris seemed off today. It wasn’t obvious, but Dorian thought he looked pale and tired.

 

Lavellan dismounted and began trudging towards the remains of a wall standing in the plains, and the others followed suit. Dorian allowed himself another subtle glimpse at Fenris, noting that his movements seemed just the slightest bit slow and unsteady, as if he were completely exhausted. He couldn’t help but think of Fenris’s recent illness and worry.

 

When he looked back in Lavellan’s direction, she was standing in front of a veilfire brazier.

 

“Vivienne, would y—” Lavellan cut herself off as she noticed a group of Freeman running towards them from a short distance away, and groaned wearily. “Dread wolf take you!” she spat under her breath, drawing her daggers.

 

“Stand ready,” Fenris said, and Dorian turned in surprise to see him standing closer than expected, sword in hand.

 

Dorian hastily cast a barrier over the two of them. They made eye contact, Fenris giving him an approving nod before his marking burst into life and he surged forward into the fray. Dorian took a deep breath and sent a barrage of spells volleying at the Freeman soldiers. By his count, there were only four enemies.

 

The man he had been targeting stepped backwards onto his glyph, which sent him bursting into flames, collapsing slowly to the ground. Dorian’s eyes scanned over the battlefield. A short distance to his left, Lavellan materialized from the shadows and brought her daggers down hard, shattering the body of an enemy frozen by Vivienne. Directly to his right, Fenris tore his arm back from another enemy’s chest, sending blood splattering as the man crumpled to the ground. Dorian flinched – he wasn’t sure that he could ever really get used to that sight.

 

An arrow flew past Fenris, possibly grazing his arm, though Dorian was too far away to really tell. He hurled a spell in the direction the arrow had come from, tearing the archer’s body apart from within and sending entrails flying in all directions. Dorian flinched again.

 

_Perhaps when it comes to gruesome fighting I have no room to judge_ , he thought after a moment. Everything became suddenly quiet. “That’s all of them!” he called.

 

“Fenris!” Lavellan cried out, rushing past Dorian to Fenris’s side, just in time to catch him as his knees buckled and he fell, unconscious.

 

Dorian froze.

 

Lavellan crouched down and laid Fenris gently on the ground. Vivienne rushed by a moment later, knelt beside Lavellan, and began to carefully examine Fenris’s body.

 

“Did you see what happened, dear?” Vivienne called to Dorian, her calm voice just the slightest bit strained with worry.

 

Dorian finally snapped out of his stupor, hurrying to join the others. “I think I saw an arrow graze his right arm. Could it have been poisoned?” he blurted out, surprising himself with how frantic he sounded.

 

“It’s possible, my dear,” Vivienne said gently as she moved to check Fenris’s arm. Lavellan turned her concerned gaze from Fenris’s face up to Dorian’s, where he stood hovering beside them.

 

Vivienne lifted Fenris’s arm, the dry grass below sticking to the blood that seeped from a small gash. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she sent waves of healing magic into his arm, the skin knitting slowly back together. Dorian chewed at his bottom lip.

 

“I am no skilled healer, but he should be fine provided we take him back to Skyhold for medical attention as quickly as possible,” Vivienne said. “I have no way of knowing whether the arrow was poisoned or not, although…” She gently rotated Fenris’s injured arm so that the others could see, wiping away some of the blood with her fingers to reveal a fresh scar that bisected one of the brands that swirled up his arm. Around the edges on either side of the gash, the lyrium was torn, sharp and jagged. “I suspect this may have something to do with it.”

 

Dorian raised his eyebrows in alarm and finally kneeled next to Fenris’s right side. He looked down at the blood staining the dusty ground. Tiny bluish metallic flecks, difficult to see but definitely there, sparkled from within the deep red.

 

“It got into his blood,” Dorian said to no one in particular.

 

“We’re taking him back immediately,” Lavellan said firmly.


	12. A Recollection

_“I am hosting a banquet tonight,” Danarius explained. “It will be essentially the same as last time, so I expect you know what is required of you.”_

_“Yes, Master,” he said, being careful to keep as still as possible where he knelt before Danarius, his eyes firmly downcast._

_“Excellent.” He felt Danarius’s fingers gently thread through his hair, stroking his scalp affectionately. “If you do well tonight, you will be rewarded. Understand?”_

_“Yes, Master,” he said again, eyes sliding closed, allowing himself to relax just a little at the rare tender touch._

_Danarius withdrew his hand after a moment and stepped out into the hall. He could hear his Master as he addressed someone just outside the door._

_“You will bathe him thoroughly, and you will be extremely careful,” Danarius’s voice said sternly. “This is a very important event for me, and I need him at his best. Dress him in the green silks. I like the way the colour plays off his eyes.”_

_“Yes, Master,” answered a meek voice._

_“Oh, and use the scented oils on his skin.” A pause, and then Danarius added, “You know what will happen if anything is amiss.”_

_“Yes, Master,” the voice said again._

_“Dismissed,” Danarius said impatiently. The sound of his robes rustling and his shoes clicking against the marble as he walked faded down the corridor._

_“_ Fasta vass _, can you believe this?” a young woman’s voice hissed from outside the door. “He gets treated almost as good as the Magisters, he does. And he’s a knife-ear!”_

_“Quiet!” the first voice snapped. “If you don’t do your job right we’ll both be in trouble. So just shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”_

_-_

_He stood at Danarius’s side, unmoving and silent as a sculpture, as his Master greeted his guests and encouraged each one to observe his markings._

_“Isn’t he a marvel of magical achievement?” Danarius would say. “Look, but do not touch!”_

_His eyes stayed obediently lowered but not so much so that he couldn’t be attentive and watchful. Despite the stifling summer heat he shivered in the gauzy green silk draped loosely over his body, feeling exposed by the way the garment was held on by hardly more than a few thin golden chains belted over the fabric, vulnerable under the guests’ gazes. He hated events such this – not only would he be gawked at ceaselessly all evening by Danarius’s jealous rival Magisters, he was also not permitted to wear armor or carry a weapon despite the danger these rivals might pose._

_Danarius seemed to notice his tension, and reached a hand out to stroke his fingertips idly over his arm, the skin still slightly slick from the fragranced oils. He did his best not to allow himself to stiffen at the somewhat painful prickling sensation that came with his markings being touched so carelessly by a mage._

_“Relax, little wolf,” Danarius breathed as soon as there was a lull between guests. “None here would be foolish enough to try to harm me in my own home with so many around to witness it.”_

_Relax._

_He took a deep breath as if preparing for a plunge into icy water, as a man he had never seen before approached._

_“Magister Danarius,” the man said in a stiff greeting. A woman who seemed to be his wife stood at his side, fanning herself distractedly with an ornately decorated fan._

_“Magister Pavus,” Danarius replied, voice oozing false geniality. “And Lady Aquinea, lovely as always.”_

Pavus?

_Lady Aquinea stopped fanning herself for just long enough to give a half-hearted curtsey before immediately going back to fanning herself again, looking impossibly disinterested. “A pleasure,” she said flatly._

_“Magister Pavus, I believe you have not yet had the opportunity to see my masterpiece up close,” Danarius said, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face as he gestured proudly at the slave beside him._

_A look of disgust flashed over Magister Pavus’s face for less than a blink of an eye, but he saw it clearly, his muscles stiffening defensively where he stood beside his Master._

_“And now I have seen him,” Magister Pavus said simply, an edge of contempt just barely detectable in his voice. “But I am afraid we must take our leave.”_

_“So early?” Danarius grinned smugly. “Could it be family problems, I wonder? Your son, perhaps?”_

_Lady Aquinea’s fanning came to an abrupt halt, her grip on her fan tightening so much that it was surprising she hadn’t snapped the wooden frame in half. Her eyes narrowed. Magister Pavus sputtered._

_“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Good evening, Magister Danarius. Excuse me.”_

_Magister Pavus grabbed onto his wife’s arm and steered her quickly out of the ballroom as she tried to pull away from his grip all the while. They began whispering tensely before they were even out of earshot, and though it was too quiet to make out exactly what they were saying, it was clear that they were having a heated argument. Danarius laughed heartily._

_“You were suspicious of him, were you not?” Danarius asked once the door closed behind the Pavuses._

_“Yes, Master,” he replied, muscles still tense._

_“Very perceptive. Good work, little wolf. But you can relax now,” Danarius said. A house slave walked by balancing a tray of wineglasses and Danarius grabbed one, draining half of it in one sip. “I think I shall reward you later, after all.”_

-

 

Fenris felt as if he was thrashing around inside his own mind, trying to wrench himself free from the memory. He had been dimly aware of his real, current surroundings for some time, and although he was no longer asleep he still felt too exhausted to move. The heavy blanket atop his body and the thick smell of elfroot and embrium in the air seemed to pin him in place.

 

Muffled voices carried in from somewhere beyond the door, sounding dreamlike and strange.

 

“You said there was nothing wrong with him,” a man’s voice said, tone accusatory.

 

“I couldn’t find nothin’ wrong with him before!” another voice answered defensively. “This time it looks something like that lyrium sickness the Templars get after they’ve been taking the stuff for a long time, but I just don’t know! It’s very unusual!”

 

There was a short pause, and the first voice spoke again. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

 

Then the voices became quieter, too quiet to hear, and Fenris felt too tired to care.

 

He was about to slip into sleep again when the door creaked and someone entered the room. He forced his eyes to open against their will, just in time to see Dorian sit down in the chair beside his bed.

 

Dorian shifted awkwardly in his seat for a moment, smiling weakly down at Fenris. “How are you feeling?” he said at last.

 

“I’m fine,” Fenris answered automatically.

 

Dorian chuckled. “I imagine you would say that no matter what was wrong with you.”

 

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris hissed, too exhausted to put any real bite into it. “Alright, I feel terrible.”

 

“You _look_ terrible.”

 

Fenris was starting to lose the struggle against his heavy eyelids. “Don’t try your luck, Altus.”

 

Dorian laughed again, and it sounded almost relieved. “Do you need anything?” he asked after a moment.

 

“Water,” Fenris said without much thought, suddenly very aware of how impossibly thirsty he felt. It was more intense than anything he’d felt before, worse than when the Fog Warriors had found him dehydrated in the jungle.

 

“Water,” Dorian repeated. “Of course.”

 

Fenris could hear Dorian’s ridiculous Tevinter style robes rustling as he stood and left the room, but the warm darkness of sleep surged up and claimed him before Dorian could return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone reading/commenting/etc!! I keep getting excited and posting new chapters earlier than I intended.


	13. Lyrium

“I’m no healer, Dorian,” Cullen said, pacing restlessly behind his desk, “But I’d say it’s entirely possible that the lyrium is the cause. I’ve seen Templars with fairly similar symptoms, and Templars just ingest the stuff.”

 

“But that doesn’t explain why the healer didn’t notice it,” Dorian said.

 

“Does it not?” Cullen replied. “Why wouldn’t she rule out something like lyrium poisoning in the case of someone who’s lived for such a long time with it embedded in his skin?”

 

Dorian leaned forward in the chair and tapped his fingers restlessly against the desk, brows furrowed in thought. “I suppose that’s true.”

 

Cullen stopped pacing for a moment, scratching absently at the nape of his neck. “You know, you could speak to Dagna. If anyone here could make sense of this, I’d wager it’s her.”

 

Dorian sat up straight again, blinking in surprise. “That’s… not half bad, actually. Good man!”

 

Cullen let out a sound somewhere between an exhale and a laugh. “I’ll submit this request to the Inquisitor in the meantime,” he said with a glance at the note in his hands. “…Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

 

“Of course,” Dorian replied. “I… Thank you.”

 

He stood and retreated back out the door to Cullen’s office, heading straight for the undercroft.

 

-

 

“He wants us to get a late Magister’s personal research notes?” Josphine asked as if it was the most shocking thing she had ever heard.

 

“Dorian believes he may be able to do something about Fenris’s illness if he had access to that information, yes,” Cullen replied.

 

Josephine sighed. “Normally, a Magister’s property would pass to their apprentice, but Magister Danarius had no apprentice and no living relatives at the time of his death.”

 

“Meaning?” Lavellan asked.

 

“Meaning,” Josephine continued, “That they could be anywhere. His assets were likely taken in by the Tevinter government upon his death, so his notes _could_ have been donated to the Tevinter Circle of Magi, though it’s just as likely they’re sitting in storage somewhere. Magister Danarius could also have ordered them destroyed upon his death, or he could have destroyed or hidden them himself at any point during his life.”

 

Lavellan frowned. “What are our options here?”

 

“It sounds like the best place to start is Danarius’s will,” Cullen suggested.

 

“You are correct,” Josephine said, “But Tevinter would never release such a personal document to even an unrelated Imperial citizen, let alone the Inquisition.”

 

“I could have my agents infiltrate the Imperial archives,” Leliana said. “If the notes are not specifically mentioned in his will, his former slaves will be.”

 

“You think his slaves will know what happened to his notes?” Lavellan asked.

 

“Of course,” Leliana replied with a sly smile. “Servants know everything that goes on in a household. You saw this at Halamshiral, no? And slaves in particular go unseen within a household, which makes them exceptionally good spies.”

 

“Wait,” Cullen said. “Was Fenris not one of Danarius’s slaves himself? He may know.”

 

“He may, but I believe Dorian wanted this kept secret from him for the time being,” Leliana replied.

 

Cullen raised an eyebrow, looking around at his colleagues’ faces. Josephine’s mouth formed into an ‘O’ and both she and Lavellan gave an understanding nod.

 

“Why?” Cullen asked, but Leliana simply gave him a wink.

 

Lavellan sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave it to you, Spymaster.”

 

-

 

“I’m so happy I was finally able to examine him!” Dagna squealed in a glee that bordered on unsettling. “Even if it was while he was unconscious. I’ve been wanting to take a look at him ever since he first came to Skyhold!”

 

“Maybe you should avoid saying anything like that to him when he’s awake,” Varric said cautiously. He crossed and uncrossed his arms, clearly out of his element in the drafty undercroft. “The elf will talk about the markings, sure, but he hates when you _ask_. Let alone actually touching them.”

 

“What did you learn, Dagna?” Dorian asked, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt.

 

“Did you know he’s essentially a rune? A _living_ rune,” she said, eyes sparkling. “At a very basic level, runecrafting uses a specific set of symbols, and the function of the rune depends entirely on how those symbols are arranged. It’s pretty standardized from one runecrafer to another. A lot of the symbols used on Fenris deviate somewhat from standard, but I recognize them. I can work with that.”

 

Varric coughed. “Which means…?”

 

“If you know how to read the symbols used on a rune – which I do – the rune’s functions can be _modified_.”

 

Dorian drew back in alarm, his brows furrowing. “I’m going to have to ask you to explain that.”

 

“Oh. That did sound bad, didn’t it? Sorry,” Dagna said with a sheepish smile. “I’ll start over.”

 

“Keep it simple for the laypeople in the room, if you don’t mind,” Varric said.

 

“I’ll try!” Dagna replied cheerfully. “Basically, the lyrium was set into his skin using a technique similar to the way inlays are done on jewelry or armor, except that it’s sort of… _fused_ there. If I had to guess, I’d say it was molten when it was applied.”

 

Dorian flinched at the thought. “Shit,” Varric hissed.

 

“You’ve got the right of it there,” Dorian breathed.

 

“It’s not how runecrafting is usually done, but it’s not entirely unheard of,” Dagna continued. “There’s no way to remove the lyrium without killing him, just like he’s said, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be damaged. Any injury that disrupts one of the markings, no matter how superficial, has a chance of getting lyrium into his blood. You could say this last injury was just the tipping point.”

 

“You’re saying this isn’t the first time this has happened?” Dorian asked incredulously.

 

“His resistance is really high, even compared to the average dwarf. Impossible, I know, but there you go,” Dagna replied. “But even with his resistance, that builds up over time.”

 

“So, basically what you’re saying,” Varric mused, “Is that the lyrium’s been gradually poisoning him ever since that bastard first put it in his skin.”

 

“More or less. I believe being near the breach could have aggravated it as well.”

 

Dorian furrowed his brow. “But what did you mean when you said the markings could be ‘modified’?”

 

Dagna had become somewhat grim, at least compared to her usual demeanor, but she perked right back up at Dorian’s question. “That’s where it gets really interesting,” she said in morbid delight. “I’ll need to do more research to be certain, but I believe his markings can be modified to create a ward of sorts. I said runecrafting was about arranging symbols to get them to perform a specific function, right? Theoretically, I could design a pattern that could increase a person’s lyrium resistance. It’s not a cure, but if it worked it would make him at least resistant enough to live out a normal lifespan without getting sick again.”

 

“Wait, wait. To keep the lyrium from poisoning Fenris… you want to add _more_ lyrium,” Varric said, squinting his eyes skeptically.

 

“Isn’t that counterproductive?” Dorian asked, taken aback.

 

“Actually, based on my examination of him, I think Danarius attempted something similar when he designed the markings in the first place,” Dagna replied. “Which would explain why his resistance is so high. Like I said, I’ll need to do more research, and I’ll need to examine him again too, and take more precise and detailed sketches, but… I also think I could do a better job than Danarius.” She grinned proudly for a moment before her expression turned serious. “But this is the part you’re not going to like.”

 

“Of course there’s a catch,” Varric said grimly. “There’s always a catch.”

 

“You’ll have to recreate the ritual that gave him the markings,” she said.

 

Varric and Dorian both gaped at her, speechless.

 

“On a much smaller scale!” she added quickly. “Much, much smaller. With almost no risk of memory loss or anything like that! The only thing is... it will probably have to involve blood magic.”

 

Dorian felt as if a lead weight had slammed into his chest and slid downward to rest heavily at the pit of his stomach. He opened his mouth to protest, but before the words would come out Varric was already talking.

 

“I… actually know someone who I believe would be more than willing to help with that,” he said, nervously grinding the toe of his boot into the dirty floor, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Dorian. “Marker’s balls, the elf is gonna kill me if Sparkler here doesn’t kill me first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter was basically just me making a bunch of stuff up about runes and lyrium, so I hope it's not too illogical or anything. Dagna is a lot of fun, anyway. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading!!


	14. There's Always a Catch

Fenris sat up in the infirmary bed, idly picking at a loose thread in the blanket. According to the healers he had spent the previous day with a startlingly high fever, fitfully drifting in and out of consciousness. Today he was strictly commanded to stay in bed to rest and recover. Some rational part of him understood that it was what would be best for him, but the rest of him ached to be out of this room.

 

His condition was improved from yesterday, and while he was still not well enough to do much of anything, he was certainly well enough to be bored. He had argued with the healers, demanding to be allowed to leave, and attempted to bargain with the kitchen workers who brought him his meals, but to no avail. And any attempt to simply walk out on his own when no one was looking was thwarted by the feverish fog in his head, the dizziness, the infuriating weakness of his own body.

 

He groaned, pushing the hair back from his forehead. The door creaked open.

 

“You’re looking better,” Dorian said, shutting the door carefully behind him and taking a seat in the chair beside the bed.

 

“They’ve saved my life only to attempt to bore me to death,” Fenris said.

 

A surprised peal of laughter shook Dorian’s shoulders. “A fate worse than death, if you ask me,” he quipped. He mulled it over for a moment, absently rotating a ring on one of his fingers. “Shall I bring you a book? Something full of excitement and adventure with no ghastly little infirmaries?”

 

“And nothing written by Varric.”

 

“Of course not,” Dorian replied, laughing loudly. “You’re already ill, we don’t need you brain-dead as well.” He gave a nod. “I will bring you a book _not_ written by Varric later, then.”

 

“I would like that,” Fenris said softly, as if confessing a deeply held secret, “Almost as much as I welcome the company.” A smirk pulled at one corner of Fenris’s mouth, and Dorian found himself mesmerized by it, unable to look away.

 

A few moments passed before Dorian finally had to remind himself to breathe. “Listen, Fenris… There’s actually something I need to discuss with you, if you’re feeling well enough.”

 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead,” he said.

 

“I’ll be blunt. It seems your markings are the cause of this illness,” Dorian explained. He took a deep breath. “The lyrium has been getting into your blood, and it’s poisoning you.”

 

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris spat. His nose wrinkled and his mouth twisted in anger, though it was dulled by how tired he looked. “I should have known that killing Danarius would never be enough to be free of his twisted magic.”

 

“I…” Dorian took a deep breath, feeling suddenly falteringly uncertain. “ _We_ have been… exploring options, for how to help you. Dagna, the Inquisition’s arcanist, seems to have some ideas, but she wants to examine…” Dorian trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Fenris’s body.

 

“…The markings,” Fenris supplied. “And you are… asking my permission?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian said sheepishly. “And doing a poor job of it, I’m afraid.”

 

Fenris blinked back at him, and then looked away, seeming to become lost in thought. Dorian picked nervously at a splinter in the arm of the chair.

 

“I will not sit idly by and let Danarius’s poison kill me,” Fenris said at last, fiercely determined. “She may do as she needs.”

 

“Excellent,” Dorian replied, sounding more surprised than intended.

 

There was a light tap at the door before an Inquisition scout slipped inside. “Inquisitor Lavellan requests your presence in the War Room, Ser Pavus,” the scout stated.

 

Dorian met Fenris’s gaze, and Fenris nodded back at him. He stood and started out the door, pausing for a moment in the doorframe to glance back.

 

“Don’t think you’re rid of me. I was serious about bringing you that book,” he said with a sympathetic smile before continuing out.

 

-

 

“Her name is Merrill. A friend of Hawke’s,” Varric explained.

 

Cullen’s eyes widened, a positively scandalized expression on his face. “I knew the Champion counted apostates among his companions, but a maleficar too?”

 

Varric groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, Curly. It’s all very shocking,” he said sarcastically. “But could we all just agree that we have bigger problems right now?”

 

Everyone around the war table was conspicuously silent.

 

“Good,” Varric said. “Now, here’s the thing: her sense of direction might actually be the worst in the world, and I’m _really_ not exaggerating. Not to mention the danger that the trip to Skyhold would put her in—”

 

“You want Fenris to go to Kirkwall?” Dorian interrupted incredulously. “Is he even well enough to travel?”

 

“I suppose he’s going to have to be,” Lavellan said with clear reluctance in her voice. “…Lyrium always poses at least a small risk of memory loss, yes? Doing this in a more familiar environment could help his recovery.”

 

“True enough. I don’t like this, but I could send a small detachment of soldiers to accompany him,” Cullen offered.

 

“No, that would draw too much attention,” Leliana countered. “I believe it would be safer if he joined one of the merchant caravans leaving Skyhold. Not only would he be protected, he could travel in a wagon without having to do any strenuous walking or riding.”

 

“Good thinking,” Lavellan said. “Dorian, you will accompany Fenris to Kirkwall.”

 

“Now just wait a moment,” Dorian protested, voice strained. “There must be a way that we can do this right here in Skyhold. _Without_ blood magic.”

 

“Actually, blood magic will likely be necessary,” Leliana said. She slid a small stack of books and papers into the center of the table. “These are the materials recovered by my agents in Tevinter. Danarius destroyed most of his research notes after he felt certain his experiment on Fenris was a success, likely to keep other Magisters from replicating the process. But we were able to find scraps that he missed, as well as some books we believe he used as a basis for his research.” She tapped her fingertips on the slightly yellowed sheets of parchment sitting atop the pile. “According to this, if a mage were to perform the ritual while simply augmenting their powers with lyrium, it would likely harm Fenris further.”

 

Dorian opened and closed his mouth weakly a few times, wanting to protest but unable to articulate what he was feeling as he glanced around the table. Everyone looked grim, but unsurprised. They had already discussed this without him.

 

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, firm but gentle as if she was worried about upsetting him, “I would like you to go over this information with Dagna. Work with her and develop a plan. I encourage you to find an alternative that does not require blood magic, but keep in mind that we have limited time. I will make arrangements for you to leave for Kirkwall in five days. Is that sufficient?”

 

Finding himself unable to form words, Dorian simply nodded.

 

-

 

It was well after dark, and the healer shot him a dirty look when he stepped inside the infirmary, but Dorian paid it no mind. He balanced four books – all adventure stories – awkwardly in one arm as he pulled open the door and slipped inside. Fenris was cocooned in the covers, unmoving.

 

Carefully, Dorian set the stack of books onto a table by the bed. He cursed under his breath when the corner of one knocked over a tin cup, thankfully empty, that he had not noticed in the dim light. Fenris stirred slightly at the sound but did not wake up. Dorian quickly retreated back out into the night.

 

“He’s hurting, but you help,” a thoughtful voice said suddenly from somewhere in the dark. “You want to atone for sins that are not your own, but there’s more than that, too. Much more.”

 

Dorian’s body jerked, his heart jumping into his throat. Cole circled around from behind the corner of the infirmary.

 

“Cole,” Dorian said, trying to regain some composure. “You startled me.”

 

“You put the one about the elven pirate on top because you think he will like it best,” Cole said, undeterred. “And he will. And I am sorry for frightening you.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” Dorian replied, but Cole was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who can write Cole's way of speaking is amazing and deserves so much respect, because it's hard as fuck. I attempted two lines of it and it took me [amount of time redacted] to write something that I'm not even particularly happy with.
> 
> Anyway, we're now approximately halfway through the story, so I hope you're looking forward to the rest. Thank you for reading!!


	15. The Last Resort of Good Men

Dorian had read through the papers laid out in front of him five times over, and the jumble of magical equations and notes on theory was starting to make his head spin. He wearily scrubbed at his face with both hands. Of course the contents of the papers had not changed from the first four times he’d read them, no matter how much he wished they had, but he had to ask again.

 

“You’re certain this is accurate?”

 

“Yes,” Dagna answered, beginning to sound just slightly impatient. “I’d think you would know better than me, considering that you’re actually a mage.”

 

Again, Dorian read over a particular page of the notes:

_The use of lyrium to enhance casting during the ritual is out of the question. Even without the tremendous concentration that will be required, it would be impossible to distinguish between drawing on lyrium potions and drawing on the lyrium required for the subject. Any mistakes hold the possibility of killing the subject. This risk is unnecessary. To keep it pure and safe, blood – and only blood – must be used to augment spellpower._

 

It was all perfectly logical, and Dorian hated it more deeply than he’d ever hated anything before. The way Danarius’s mechanical script laid out something so horrible as simply as one might describe how to lace a boot made Dorian feel ill, and the fact that he could find no issue with it made the feeling even worse.

 

Using blood magic on Fenris was the only way to save him.

 

He shoved a hand harshly through his hair, for once uncaring of how it left the strands sticking up out of place.

 

“Dagna,” he said finally, “Do you think we have everything we need to do this?”

 

“I think so,” she replied, and it seemed that for Dorian’s sake she was trying to contain her enthusiasm at the prospect of finally being able to begin. He couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate the thought.

 

“Let’s get started then,” he said, the words turning to ash in his mouth.

 

-

 

When Dorian entered the room Fenris was sitting up with the book about the elven pirate propped on his knees, poring over the pages with deep concentration. He looked up at the sound of the door closing behind Dorian, marking his place on the page with his thumb as his attention shifted.

 

“This is not how boats work,” Fenris said without preamble.

 

Dorian could only manage to smile weakly. “I suppose you may be able to confirm that a few days from now.”

 

Fenris squinted in confusion. With a sigh, Dorian collapsed heavily into the chair beside the bed.

 

“Dagna believes we’ve figured out how to prevent the lyrium from harming you any further,” Dorian said grimly to the floor, “But I don’t like it, so I know you’re not going to like it either.”

 

“Get to the point, mage,” Fenris said.

 

Dorian breathed deeply a pushed a hand nervously through his hair, yanking at the strands.

 

_Nasty habit. Must do something about that._

He looked up again to see Fenris watching him cautiously.

 

“You know, you really are far more patient than I ever would have imagined.”

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “And I’m becoming less so by the second,” he shot back.

 

“Fine,” Dorian replied with a sigh. “It’s not a _cure_ , but we can make you more resistant to lyrium poisoning. It’s just that…” He paused, trying his best to swallow as his throat threatened to seize up. “It will require, on a very small scale…” He gestured vaguely in Fenris’s direction. “…Adding to your markings.”

 

“Blood magic,” Fenris said, his tone oddly flat, emotion completely unreadable. Dorian found himself unable to look up from the floor. “Who would be performing the ritual?”

 

“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking!” Dorian sputtered, gaze travelling up in surprise to find Fenris’s expression even more unreadable than his voice. He took a breath to calm himself. “No, though I hear you know her. A Dalish mage living in Kirkwall.”

 

Fenris wrinkled his nose, his face immediately twisting into a cringe of disgust so exaggerated it was almost comical. The book slid from his lap and landed with a muffled thud on the mattress.

 

“Merrill,” Fenris hissed.

 

“Ah, so I see you two are the best of friends. Splendid.”

 

“Do not make light of this!” Fenris growled. His lips curled into a vicious snarl. “That you, of all people, would suggest—”

 

“I said I didn’t like it!” Dorian interrupted defensively. “But we’ve no other choice!”

 

The lyrium branded into Fenris’s skin burst into life in a rush of anger. Startled, Dorian jerked back in his seat. The pain was much worse than usual, like blades of ice stabbing into his flesh along each line and curve of the brands, sending intense waves of nausea and dizziness washing over him. Fenris clenched his fists at his side, forcing his markings to flicker out, breathing as deeply as he could manage to stave off the spinning in his head and the twisting of his stomach.

 

Even while he took a few moments to collect himself, he maintained a sharp glare that pinned Dorian in place. “Fool,” Fenris spat finally, voice more calm but still dripping with venom, “There is always a choice.”

 

Dorian drew a careful breath. “Read this and you’ll understand. You still won’t like it, of course, but you’ll understand,” he said, drawing a folded sheet of paper from his robes.

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes suspiciously before taking the paper. He unfolded it, faltering when he saw the distantly familiar handwriting, his muscles involuntarily stiffening as if bracing for impact.

 

Danarius’s sharp, methodical Tevene handwriting was slightly faded with age, contrasting the words written below it in fresh ink. A neat and deliberate lettering spelled out each of the Tevene words phonetically, in Trade Tongue script.

 

“I transliterated it, because I think it’s best you read the original. You deserve at least that much,” Dorian said falteringly, sounding somehow very far away. “If it is difficult to understand, I will read it to you. And if you don’t trust me, we can have Krem read it.”

 

Fenris’s eyes scanned over the words before him.

 

_Trust._

 

“That… will not be necessary,” Fenris choked out.

 

Dorian stared down at the rings on his fingers, unable to look up. “We have more notes like this… about the ritual,” he explained carefully, “And it is your right to read them, should you wish. But for now, just read this page and consider what I’ve said.”

 

“Why are you giving me this?” Fenris remained frozen, eyes locked on the paper in his hands. He suddenly seemed rather small.

 

“I… believe this should not happen without your consent. All preparations have already been made, so we can leave for Kirkwall at any time, but only should you allow it.” Dorian cast his eyes towards the foot of the bed, finding it increasingly difficult to look at Fenris. “But do keep in mind all the people who will have my head if I allow you to die,” he added with forced lightheartedness that sounded anything but lighthearted.

 

The two went silent, and Dorian felt as if a massive distance had suddenly stretched out between them.

 

“Please give me an answer as soon as you are able,” Dorian said at last. He sighed and stood to leave.

 

He was reaching for the door handle when Fenris’s voice, sharp but still somehow calm, stopped him.

 

“Wait.”

 

He turned back to see Fenris staring up at him, odd flashes of emotion playing across his face.

 

“Why concern yourself with this?” Fenris asked, voice thin and strained. “Because of your desire to change Tevinter? To fix the wrongdoings of a Magister?”

 

One corner of Dorian’s mouth twitched up in a melancholy half-smile. “I’m afraid my reasons are a bit more selfish than that,” he said vaguely, and left the room.

 

-

 

Fenris tossed fitfully in his bed, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. An intense and unnatural thirst choked him, throat dry like sandpaper, cracking with each breath. His heart pounded so hard in his chest from the primal fear and rage that surged through him that it felt as if it rattled his very bones.

 

_Danarius has won._

His entire body felt impossibly frail. He burned with fever, at once blazing hot and freezing cold.

 

_I do not want to die_ , he thought, a stinging sensation prickling at his eyes, pulling at his throat. His mind repeated it again and again, a twisted mantra.

 

_I do not want to die. I do not want to die._

_I cannot let him win._


	16. The Journey

Dorian blinked weakly at the cup of water being offered to him. He felt too unsteady to even wipe the cold sweat from his brow, shaky as he reached out to take the cup into his hands.

 

“I don’t know if I can keep this down,” he groaned, watching the water slosh in the cup as Fenris let go of it.

 

“You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met,” Fenris said with an impatient edge betrayed by the lopsided smirk that he could not quite hide.

 

“Well I’m glad one of us is having a pleasant time,” Dorian replied sarcastically as he continued to eye the water skeptically. Finally, he raised the cup to his lips, taking an unintentionally huge gulp that felt soothing on his rough throat until his stomach lurched painfully.

 

“Not so much at once, fool,” Fenris commanded, and to Dorian’s ears he sounded positively jovial.

 

“The abuses I suffer,” Dorian said softly, smiling despite himself as the nausea faded. He heeded Fenris’s advice and took a small, careful sip of water.

 

Travelling together had been tense – while Fenris had been doing better since his collapse in the Exalted Plains, he was still ill and Dorian insisted on treating him as such, despite his resentment. They argued frequently and heatedly over what Fenris should and should not be doing to avoid aggravating his condition. On top of that, the knowledge of what awaited them at the end of their journey hung heavily over both of them. Try as they might to ignore it, to forget it, it still loomed ahead like dark clouds on the horizon, and all the while they pretended not to realize how utterly foolish it was to sail directly into the storm.

 

Even if it was at his own expense, Dorian was almost thankful to his seasickness for being a distraction capable of relieving so much of the tension between them.

 

The boat rocked, and his stomach lurched again.

 

_Almost_ thankful.

 

He slowly drank the rest of the water in silence, occasionally hazarding a glance across the cramped cabin at Fenris where he lay on his side on the hard bunk, engrossed in a novel. Dorian couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride when he noticed that the book was one of the ones he had chosen.

 

By the time Dorian set the empty cup aside, he was feeling quite a bit better. He shifted into his own uncomfortable bunk, curling up to relieve some of the stress on his stomach.

 

“I met your parents once,” Fenris said suddenly, face hidden behind the cover of his book.

 

Dorian propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head, taken aback. “My parents?”

 

“ _Magister Halward and Lady Aquinea Pavus_ ,” Fenris intoned, sounding bizarrely like he was announcing them as guests at a Magisterial gala. He set the book aside and rolled onto his back, gazing up at the wooden planked ceiling. “Everything I knew of my life before was wiped away by the ritual, and for perhaps two years or so after the ritual there are… gaps. The memories return sometimes, like dreams.”

 

“And you have memories of my parents?” Dorian asked incredulously.

 

Fenris exhaled slowly. “They attended one of Danarius’s vile parties,” he explained, and then gave an amused grin. “Your father could barely contain his revulsion when Danarius spoke to him.”

 

Dorian barked out a laugh and almost flinched at how bitter it sounded. “Perhaps there is some good in Magister Halward after all!”

 

“You are more unlike them than you realize,” Fenris said plainly.

 

“High praise coming from you, I suppose.”

 

In lieu of a reply Fenris made a soft, low sound in the back of his throat. He picked up his book again, but faltered when he tried to return his attention to the pages.

 

“Danarius… _taunted_ them, by mentioning you,” Fenris said. His voice was blank but Dorian noticed an edge of something he could not quite name just below the surface. Dorian exhaled with another sharp, humourless laugh and averted his eyes.

 

“I suppose that’s what happens, when the one you’ve placed all your bets upon turns out to be a shameful mistake,” he replied. “Which is why you should never bet all you have at once. A forgivable beginner’s mistake, considering my parents were never much for Wicked Grace.”

 

Fenris chewed at the inside of his lip. “You are better than that,” he said simply. Dorian’s gaze shot back to Fenris, grasping desperately for a reply that was not insincere, relieved when he saw that Fenris had already resumed reading to save him from having to say anything.

 

-

 

A thick fog mixed with smoke from the Lowtown foundries blanketed Kirkwall when they arrived early the next morning. It was the first time Fenris had been back in some time, and it felt strange – seeming to him both undeniably familiar and rather foreign, all the more surreal through the feverish haze in his mind. Even now, there were still signs of what had happened in Kirkwall – scorch marks here and there on the ever more crumbled stonework, melted and shattered glass that was never replaced, makeshift wooden structures rebuilt overtop of charred remains. The city itself seemed tired.

 

Dorian followed Fenris up the worn stone stairs that lead up from the docks, worrying at the pace Fenris was forcing himself to keep, clearing his throat loudly at regular intervals against the smoky air.

 

“So,” Dorian began, sounding just slightly less queasy than he had during the boat ride, “These ‘lodging arrangements’ that Varric made…”

 

Fenris took a deep breath before he spoke, trying to mask the way his breathing had already become heavy with fatigue. “The Hanged Man,” Fenris said. “It’s a tavern.”

 

“A tavern,” Dorian repeated, the word dropping from his tongue like a lead weight.

 

Fenris scoffed. “Less sophisticated than you’re used to, Altus?”

 

“Not exactly, but you must understand my concern. Kirkwall _is_ a bit of a shithole.”

 

A low, throaty chuckle escaped Fenris’s lips. “I cannot argue with that,” he said.

 

Fenris took a sharp right at the top of the stairs and headed for a building just as decrepit and nondescript as all the others, except for a massive, gaudy sign made crudely in the image of a man hanging by his feet above the door.

 

“Charming,” Dorian said under his breath.

 

The inside of the tavern was no better. It was mostly empty, likely due to the early hour; though there was a man crumpled in one corner, unconscious and drooling and clearly still there from the night before. Corff stood just inside the kitchen, supervising a huge vat of something that might have been food but smelled so sour it made the inside of Dorian’s nose sting. The door stuck when Dorian tried to pull it shut behind them, so he pulled it harder – harder than intended, and the door came slamming closed with a loud bang that made Dorian wince. Fenris shot him a dubious glare.

 

“Varric’s friends, right?” Corff called groggily over his shoulder. “Norah, show them to their room.”

 

A waitress who had been slumped over the counter sat up suddenly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she stood and motioned for them to follow. Dorian’s boots stuck to the floor with every step as he trailed after her, warily eyeing the suspicious stains and the piles of dirt and dust accumulated on every surface.

 

Their room was spacious but still filthy, with two hard beds that made the cots back on the boat seem luxurious in retrospect. Norah tried to drop the key into Dorian’s hand as she left but instead dropped it heavily to the floor beside him, too sleepy to even notice her mistake as she shuffled back out of the room.

 

Dorian blinked twice, dismayed to find he wasn’t simply imagining the dirt. “Varric does realize that you’re not well, yes?” he said incredulously.

 

“There are worse places,” Fenris said vaguely. Something about his demeanor seemed a great distance away, his expression verging on fondness as his gaze moved over their surroundings.

 

Fenris looked more at ease than Dorian had ever seen him, something bittersweet and nostalgic playing across his face, leaving Dorian to wonder absently if it was the feeling of returning home. His eyes seemed to be observing something that Dorian could not see, as if he’d been spirited away to another time and place. Dorian set his bags down carefully, feeling suddenly very much like an intruder. He tried to appear busy by aimlessly rummaging through his belongings.

 

“We should go,” Fenris said after a time.

 

He looked unusually frail when Dorian turned around to face him, an obvious tinge of purple showing through the skin beneath his reddened, glassy eyes. Dorian frowned.

 

“Shouldn’t you rest a little first?” he said before he could stop himself. He winced slightly, bracing for Fenris’s ire at what he would surely think was Dorian trying to coddle him.

 

Instead, Fenris simply shrugged. “I slept a great deal on the ship. We are wasting time here.”

 

Dorian stood with a defeated exhale, straightening his robes. “Fair enough,” he replied softly. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't a popular opinion but DA2 is actually my favourite game of the series so far?! So I'm honestly pretty excited that they're in Kirkwall now. *sweats*
> 
> And thank you so much again for reading! I hope you're still enjoying it!


	17. Daisy

The sun was already much higher in the sky than when they arrived, burning away most of the morning fog that rolled in from the docks and dying all of Lowtown in the same bland, grimy hue. Fenris lead them through the cramped, angular streets, his steps worryingly unsteady as they weaved in and out of the bustle of people. Dorian watched him closely. He tried to chase the memory of Fenris’s collapse in the Exalted Plains from his mind, but it was no use – his body refused to relax as he followed Fenris into the Alienage, ready to spring forward to catch Fenris should he fall.

 

To Dorian’s relief, it was a short walk.

 

“Here,” Fenris said, turning to face Dorian as he gestured towards the crumbling building that stood before them. Dorian stepped forward and knocked on the shabby wooden door.

 

A crash echoed from inside.

 

“Oh dear,” a soft voice said, muffled through the door. “Elsa, won’t you get that? The door, I mean.”

 

A short moment passed before the door creaked open to reveal a woman with piercing, blank eyes and the angry scarring of the sunburst brand on her forehead.

 

“Please come in,” she said in monotone, bowing back to give them room to enter.

 

“Meredith’s Tranquil?” Fenris asked in surprise as they stepped inside.

 

Merrill was perched over the remains of a shattered teapot on the floor, cradling the broken handle in her palms. “Hello, Fenris,” she said sheepishly, surveying the damage before her. “I’d heard your boat was here and I knew you’d be over soon so I thought I’d make some tea…”

 

Fenris frowned at his question being ignored. Dorian hurried forward, knelt down, and began to help Merrill pick up the larger shards of broken porcelain.

 

“Oh, I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I?” Merrill said, flustered.

 

“You’re fine, dear,” Dorian replied reassuringly.

 

“You must be… Dorian, was it?” she said as Elsa slipped into the hall and reappeared with a straw broom. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Merrill… But you probably knew that already.”

 

Dorian paused and looked up from the mess on the floor, fighting to keep his brows from furrowing. _This_ was Merrill? The woman who openly practiced blood magic? He supposed he should have guessed – the distinct tattoos on her face marked her as Dalish – though he hadn’t expected her to be so… endearing.

 

Merrill smiled at him cluelessly, standing back to let Elsa sweep up what was left of the glass. “Varric said you had a nice mustache. I think it’s very pretty,” she said with a sincere nod.

 

_Pretty._ Dorian chuckled. “It is, isn't it?” he replied proudly. Fenris scoffed from somewhere behind him.

 

Elsa finished cleaning, precise and efficient, and discarded the last of the ruined teapot. “And this is Elsa,” Merrill added with a frown at her forgetfulness. “Thank you, Elsa.”

 

Elsa nodded to them, stiff but cordial. “You were correct earlier,” she said to Fenris in her blank, mechanical voice. “I was former Knight-Commander Meredith’s assistant. I remember you from your time with the Champion.”

 

“But how did you end up here?” Fenris asked, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Merrill took me in after the Circle mages rebelled. The mages were unconcerned with the other Tranquil, but they felt negatively towards me because of my connection to Meredith,” Elsa explained. “Merrill believed I would be unsafe with them.”

 

“Because being around Merrill is so much safer,” Fenris shot back with disdainful sarcasm.

 

“Why must you always be so cross?” Merrill said, frustrated.

 

“A question that will be pondered for ages to come,” Dorian said, biting back a grin at the scathing look Fenris gave him and the barely contained delight that spread across Merrill’s face. “But for now we have a more pressing issue at hand, do we not?”

 

The four of them moved to sit around the large table at one end of Merrill’s house, where Dorian produced a thick envelope containing the research notes he had compiled with Dagna and spread them out over the tabletop. He and Merrill began to discuss the logistics of the ritual, Dorian with clear reluctance and Merrill with oblivious determination, with occasional calm and logical input from Elsa.

 

Their discussion stretched on for hours without breaks. Elsa would occasionally leave the room and return with water or food for everyone, accustomed to having to look after Merrill in her absentmindedness. Dorian paced before the table with nervous energy, and Merrill would shift from her chair to sitting cross-legged on the floor or perched on the table and then back to her chair again every half hour or so.

 

Fenris tried his best to pay attention, but he found himself unable to focus, fighting a losing battle against his exhaustion. His mind felt muddled by a thick haze, his limbs were dead weight, and his eyes stung as if a fine sand was trapped beneath his eyelids. And the unnatural, lyrium-induced thirst – he was becoming better at ignoring it, but with nothing to distract him, it clawed and scraped at his throat, choking him with every insubstantial breath.

 

He needed to get out.

 

Wordlessly, he stood and lifted his sword onto his back. Merrill and Dorian were still absorbed in their planning, both leaning heavily on the table, Dorian resting his chin on one had while gesturing absently with the other as he spoke and Merrill furiously taking notes. Their voices sounded impossibly far away to him, their words unintelligible. Neither seemed to notice Fenris leaving until he pulled the door shut behind him with a click.

 

Dorian gaped up at the door in surprise.

 

Merrill blinked. “Maybe he just needed some fresh air,” she suggested.

 

Dorian bit back a quip about Kirkwall having no fresh air. “Shouldn’t we go after him?” he said instead, beginning to stand.

 

“That would just make him cross.”

 

“Everything makes him cross,” Dorian replied automatically.

 

Merrill giggled, and looked surprised at her own laughter. It made some of the tension drain from Dorian’s muscles – tension he hadn’t even realized was there.

 

“Perhaps we could all use some air,” Dorian added.

 

Merrill nodded. “I’m sure Fenris will be fine. He likes to be on his own sometimes, I think.” She adjusted the end of one sleeve, pushing it down over her hand. “But maybe you should… let him get a head start, and then follow after him. Just to make sure he’s safe. Kirkwall is very dangerous when it starts to get dark.”

 

Dorian blinked. “Just me?”

 

“He doesn’t like me very much. I think I’d just make him more cross.”

 

“And I wouldn’t?” Dorian replied with a bitter laugh.

 

“I don’t think so,” she replied, giving a small, understanding smile. “He acts grumpy because that’s just how he is, but he doesn’t mean it. He was like that with Hawke too, a little bit.”

 

_Hawke_.

 

Dorian bit his lip, unsure of what to say or how to feel.

 

“If you intend to follow him, I suggest you go before he is able to get too far,” Elsa said, sounding surprisingly impatient for a Tranquil.

 

“You’re right,” Dorian said with a sigh. He stood, grabbing his staff and heading out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I just get really concerned about what happened to the Tranquil who lived in the Circles...?
> 
> And again, thank you so much to everyone who is still reading!!


	18. Another Life

The sun was beginning to set, blazing orange over the edges of the crumbling stone wall as it sank behind the newly rebuilt Chantry. Fenris stood on the upstairs balcony of the Hawke estate, or what was left of it. Hawke had fled Kirkwall after the incident at the Gallows, and with everything else that needed rebuilding it was never a priority, so it was simply left abandoned.

 

He was losing daylight quickly now. Even Hightown was dangerous at night – Fenris knew that, but he could not will himself to return. He felt as if he was in a dream, looking out over the ruins of a life he had before, so distant it felt like someone else’s memory but yet so startlingly familiar.

 

It was an odd feeling, and it rooted him to the spot.

 

Most of the house was still perfectly intact, though it had clearly been the target of looters. The damage was concentrated on the upper half of the western facade where debris from the Chantry explosion had made impact. The wall was peppered with holes that were slowly beginning to crumble with neglect, burning red with the disappearing sun. The chandelier had been ripped from the ceiling and flung against the railing before crashing to the floor below, where it remained. But otherwise the house was empty.

 

A shell of what it once was.

 

The sound of the front door creaking slowly open pulled Fenris from his thoughts. His muscles tensed up defensively, ready to reach for his sword. A figure, silhouetted dark against the light of the sunset, carefully slipped inside. As Fenris’s eyes adjusted to the shift in lighting he watched the man begin to climb the stairs in heavy robes and a staff at his back.

 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” the man hissed quietly as he nearly missed a step in the dim light.

 

Dorian.

 

Fenris relaxed, though he still felt something constricting in his chest.

 

Dorian crested the stairs and stood before him with a nervous smile. He rested a hand on the railing as if he intended to lean on it, but quickly retracted his hand when he felt how unstable it was.

 

“I…” Dorian trailed off, his mind scrambling for an excuse he’d failed to think up before. “I… thought someone should let you know that we are finished for today.”

 

Fenris hummed vaguely in acknowledgment. He seemed to be in another world, staring forward blankly, eyes refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze. Dorian shifted awkwardly.

 

“This was Hawke’s estate,” Fenris said distantly, “before… everything.”

 

Dorian was silent. Fenris had forced his expression to be blank on the surface, but there was something else there, something harshly forlorn and bitter, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to make it go away. Before his mind could catch up and keep him from doing anything foolish, his body was moving. He drew close to Fenris and captured his lips with his own.

 

But Fenris froze, standing unresponsive. Dorian quickly pulled back with an apology ready, but Fenris spoke before Dorian could manage to form the words.

 

“I cannot… do this,” Fenris said softly, eyes downcast. “Not here.”

 

His voice was quiet, careful, but it hit Dorian like a blow to the chest that sent him scrambling back into himself.

 

“O-of course,” Dorian stuttered out. “I won’t do it again. Forgive me.”

 

Fenris finally looked at him, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. It was not the reaction Dorian was expecting, and he did not understand. He opened his mouth but closed it again when he realized that he had no idea what to say.

 

“We should go back,” Fenris said.

 

“Right.”

 

The two left the ruined estate in a stiff silence.

 

As they approached the top of the stairs that lead to Lowtown from the market square, the sound of a flask shattering rang out from somewhere nearby. Dorian reached for his staff and spun around, throwing down a barrier spell as a group of highwaymen rushed at them from the shadows.

 

“Shall we end this quickly?” Fenris called back as he surged forward, striking down the nearest enemy with a heavy downward swing of his blade.

 

“Don't attack, just defend yourself!” Dorian shouted.

 

As he should have expected, Fenris didn’t listen, lunging directly into the swarm of enemies.

 

Dorian cursed under his breath. He used his magic to pull from the dead spirits that lingered to send the group around Fenris fleeing in all directions in a blind panic. Fenris managed to grab onto one man as he tried to flee, throwing him to the ground and bringing his sword down on top of him.

 

Feeling some relief, Dorian sent spells flying rapidly at the other scattered enemies, taking several out with a wall of fire. He shot a quick glance back in Fenris’s direction just in time to see an assassin materialize out of the shadows behind him.

 

“Watch out!” Dorian yelled.

 

Fenris’s markings burst into light as if completely by reflex. The assassin lunged forward with her daggers. Fenris sidestepped, and the daggers simply passed though the wraithlike form of one of his shoulders, doing no damage. He spun around and thrust a ghostly hand into her throat, crushing her windpipe.

 

As she crumpled lifelessly to the ground, Fenris’s knees buckled. His markings flickered out, and he collapsed forward onto the assassin’s body. The last thing he heard was Dorian crying his name helplessly before everything went dark.

 

-

 

_Dark._

_Everything was impossibly dark – a darkness that encompassed all, that encircled him in a crushing embrace, holding him suspended in a nothingness so deep that it became his whole world, became everything._

_“—going to die,” a voice said, muffled and indistinct through the darkness._

_“_ Vishante Kaffas! _” another voice spat. “I was told you were the best healer in Minrathous. You will either do your job or you will stop wasting my valuable time!”_

_“There’s only so much a healer can do!” the first voice shouted back. “No one’s body could have withstood that! The elf is going to die.”_

_The noise, however dampened, hurt his ears. He wanted it to go away._

_Sleep. He wanted to sleep. The darkness, the only familiar, comfortable thing, surged up around him and drowned everything out._

_Sometime later – who knows how long? – he became aware of a dim, orange glow beginning to permeate the darkness. The brightness increased, slowly, gradually, perhaps over a period of hours or days or even weeks, until it became bright enough to illuminate the network of veins behind his tightly closed eyelids._

_He groaned. He wanted to sleep more. His body twitched, trying to roll over, trying to find the darkness again, but his atrophied muscles wouldn’t allow it._

_“He moved!” a voice said with a gasp. “I think he’s waking up!”_

…waking up…

_“Go on, then!” another voice commanded, rushed and impatient. “Tell the Magister! The Magister will want to know!”_

…Magister?

 

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ you had better be alright,” a panicked, desperate voice said all in one breath.

 

Fenris felt his body being pulled up off of something soft and out of a pool of slowly cooling, sticky liquid. The man then dragged him as gently as possible to a clear spot on the stone pavement, grunting with the effort.

 

“How is an elf that heavy? Are you made of lead?” the voice demanded from somewhere above him, out of breath, exasperated and thin with worry. Fenris tried to reply, but only a groan came out.

 

The sound of fabric rustled beside him, and he was rolled onto his back by a pair of warm, dry hands. The hands checked his pulse, his breathing, before coming to rest at each side of his face.

 

“Listen, Fenris,” the man said carefully, “I need you to wake up for me, please. There’s no way I can get you back to the inn by myself. I need you to be alright. Please. Wake up.”

 

Fenris concentrated as hard as he could, and his eyelids fluttered open. Dorian knelt at his side, worry etched on his face.

 

“Good,” Dorian said, though he didn’t look relieved at all. “Can you speak? Are you… are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” Fenris said, wrinkling his nose at how rusty his voice sounded. “Just… give me a moment.”

 

He took a few deep breaths, and then cautiously pushed himself into a sitting position. One of Dorian’s hands hovered close behind his back, ready to support him should he need it. It wasn’t touching him but it was close enough to feel Dorian’s warmth, reassuring and somehow soothing.

 

“I’m not going to fall,” Fenris said, sounding vexed despite himself.

 

Dorian reluctantly pulled his hand back only slightly, so that it was still hovering behind Fenris, just in case. “Can you stand?”

 

Fenris experimentally placed the soles of his feet on the ground in front of him as he sat, bending his knees. “I think so,” he replied, “Though… I might need…”

 

“Of course,” Dorian cut in, saving Fenris from having to admit it. He slipped his arm across Fenris’s back, and Fenris draped his own arm behind Dorian’s neck. They stood together slowly, carefully.

 

They walked in silence, both of them having to concentrate to avoid falling on the stairs. Dorian kept his arm around Fenris as they went, supporting him, and Fenris found himself fighting not to lean into Dorian’s warmth.

 

When they finally arrived back at their grimy little room in the Hanged Man, after Fenris was safely in his bed, Dorian broke the silence.

 

“Are you certain you’re alright?”

 

Fenris huffed. “I’m fine,” he answered, sounding at once frustrated and reassuring.

 

Dorian did not look convinced, but he didn’t press it either. He sat stiffly at the edge of his own bed, eyes downcast, staring off at nothing at all.

 

“Fenris, may I ask you something?” Dorian said nervously after a time.

 

“I suppose so,” Fenris replied, uncertain.

 

Dorian drew a breath as if to steel himself. “What you had with Hawke…”

 

_Oh._ Fenris sighed; he did not want to think about Hawke right now.

 

“I know it’s not my place to ask, but,” Dorian continued, looking down at his hands, “When we talked about it before, you seemed to regret leaving him. And today…”

 

“I regret my cowardice,” Fenris said plainly. “But my feelings for him now are not what they were then. They are not what I feel for…” He trailed off suddenly, and cleared his throat. “Hawke is a trusted friend, nothing more.”

 

“I see,” Dorian said. When he looked up his expression was solemn, though he quickly replaced it with a facade of nonchalance, retreating back into himself. “At any rate, we could both use some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

 

Dorian began getting ready for bed, effectively ending the conversation and leaving Fenris with that precarious feeling of something left incomplete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed but I love the concept of people being unable to lift Fenris because his skinny little elven body is so dense that he actually weighs a fucking ton.
> 
> Thank you so much again for reading, and I really hope you're still enjoying it!!


	19. Ink

“What we really need is a good healer,” Dorian said with a sigh.

 

Merrill looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor and furrowed her brow, confused. “I thought you said you knew some healing magic.”

 

“Yes, and the key word there is _some_ ,” Dorian replied. “I can do a very basic spell or two, though not very well. It’s never been my forte.” He ran a hand back through his hair, frustrated. “I can’t even heal a small wound without leaving a scar.”

 

“I thought leaving a scar was the point in this case,” Merrill replied thoughtfully, drawing her brush from the pot of ink without paying much attention and holding it carelessly over Fenris’s face as she spoke. The motion of her hand sent a large drop of excess ink falling from the brush to land just above Fenris’s eyebrow. He flinched at the impact, and the ink dripped off the side of his face and streaked into his hair.

 

“Would you pay attention!” he snapped. The ink in his hair began to drip onto the mat he was laying on, leaving a few tiny splatters beside his head.

 

“Oh!” Merrill gasped. “Fenris, I’m terribly sorry! I’ll clean it up!”

 

Fenris looked disgusted and Merrill looked frantic and Dorian couldn’t help but to think it was all a little bit funny. He turned his head to hide the smile spreading across his face, biting at his lip to keep from laughing. He was only moderately successful.

 

“ _Fasta vass_ , stop distracting her,” Fenris spat.

 

By then Elsa had already stepped back into the room with towels, soap, and a basin of water. Dorian wondered absently if becoming tranquil had given her the ability to see the future, or if she was simply _that_ used to living with Merrill.

 

Elsa set the objects on the floor beside Merrill, who quickly began to try to scrub the ink out of Fenris’s hair, apologizing all the while. Fenris let out an exasperated noise from the back of his throat.

 

Dorian glanced again at the rolls of parchment strewn across the table where he and Merrill had practiced imitating Dagna’s runic forms. No matter how much he wished he could have been doing more of the work, Merrill’s really were much better than his. He leaned heavily against the table, feeling more profoundly useless than he had in a long time. A man he’d come to care about more than he would ever be comfortable admitting could possibly die – and here he was, contributing absolutely nothing to help his survival. It was frustrating, to say the least.

 

Six parts would be added to the lyrium that already covered most of Fenris’s body: a series of branching lines curving down from the sides of his face along both of his cheekbones, a sharp arch with forked ends above each shoulder blade, and a slightly more complex variation of the cheekbone design that would climb the side of each thigh like a thorny vine.

 

Dagna had done her best to make it foolproof, keeping the designs as simple as possible, but so much could still go wrong. It was terrifying. Dorian shoved a hand through his hair again and looked back to where Merrill was painting a mock-up of the designs onto Fenris’s face.

 

“Oh, I’ve made them a bit uneven,” she said with a frown.

 

Dorian shifted restlessly in his seat. “Merrill, is there anywhere I could buy some food that we could all have for lunch? It would probably be best for us to eat before we… do the rest of it.”

 

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Merrill replied brightly. She hummed thoughtfully as she washed off the ink from the portion where she had made a mistake. “There’s a women who opened a stand in the bazaar recently who makes the nicest little fish pies… She’s a bit crazy, I think, but the pies are very good!”

 

“Fish pies, then?” Dorian asked with a shrug.

 

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “No.”

 

“Oh, you don’t like fish, do you, Fenris? I remember you saying so,” Merrill said. “She also sells meat pies, I think. If that’s better?”

 

Fenris mumbled something in agreement, and Dorian told himself to remember that as he slipped outside. The sun beat down bright overhead. Wanting to kill some time until Merrill was finished painting and he would be needed, Dorian wandered around the bazaar aimlessly, relishing in the soothing warmth of the sun on his face. Even after finding what he assumed to be the market stall Merrill was talking about, he circled around the square a few times, weaving in and out of crowd, until he noticed that a lot of people were eyeing him suspiciously.

 

Their stares seemed to be boring into him from all directions as he bought the food. Even the woman selling it watched him nervously as he paid. It was odd, and Dorian hurried back to be away from it.

 

When he arrived back at Merrill’s house, Fenris was laying on one side looking impossibly bored as Merrill painted the last touches on his left leg.

 

“Good timing. I’m finished now, Fenris,” she said. “Did you have trouble finding it, Dorian? I know I still get lost here a lot. Lowtown is very confusing.”

 

Fenris stood, looking relieved that it was finally over, and pulled on a shirt and trousers loose-fitting enough that they would not smear the ink as it dried.

 

“No trouble,” Dorian replied, “But people in the bazaar were staring at me, and I get the sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t only because of my dashing good looks.”

 

“I wonder why?” Merrill said, tilting her head to one side.

 

“It’s because you look Tevinter,” Fenris said plainly.

 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Because I look Tevinter?”

 

“Meaning,” Fenris replied, eyes narrowing, “That they thought you were a slaver.”

 

Dorian sputtered, finding himself unable to form a coherent reply.

 

“Come to think of it, I’ve never met anyone from Tevinter around Kirkwall who wasn’t here to hunt for slaves,” Merrill mused. “Except you two, of course. Oh, and there’s been much less since Fenris started killing them.”

 

“There are many elves in this Alienage who were freed by Fenris,” Elsa added as she arranged the food on the table.

 

“I had no idea it was such a problem,” Dorian said in surprise.

 

“Of course you didn’t!” Fenris spat, voice suddenly loud and dripping in venom. “Where did you think the Imperium’s slaves came from, _Altus_? Tevinter preys upon those who have no choice, but you’ve never had to worry about that, have you?” His muscles were strung tight with energy that had nowhere to go. “ _Venhedis_ ,” he growled. He slammed his hands onto the table, and used them to push himself back, storming for the door.

 

“Fenris!” Merrill called out in concern.

 

“I… need some air,” he ground out in reply, rushing outside and pulling the door shut hard enough behind him to rattle the little wooden halla statuettes decorating the side table near the entrance.

 

Dorian stood in stunned silence, feeling frozen in place.

 

“This must all be very hard for him, but I do wish he would relax a little,” Merrill said to no one in particular.

 

-

 

Fenris was sitting near the bottom of the Alienage steps with his forehead resting on his hands when Dorian finally willed himself to follow. He stood up as Dorian approached, nervously shifting from one foot to the other as Dorian simply stood before him, unable to think of what to say.

 

“I… apologize,” Fenris said at last. “You do not really deserve my anger. I should not be taking it out on you.”

 

Dorian started to comment on Fenris’s choice of wording but stopped himself. “It’s alright. I’m used to it,” he said instead. “But I’d like to believe that I _am_ learning.”

 

Fenris drew a deep breath and closed his eyes.

 

A few moments of silence passed between them. Though neither seemed able to reach the other’s gaze, it was not entirely uncomfortable – both of them retreating into their own thoughts as they watched the patterns of light and shadow cast by the sunlight streaming through the branches of the vhenadahl dancing on the dusty ground. A soft breeze blew past, and Dorian felt as if he was drawn to look up by the flow of the air, watching the way it gently ruffled Fenris’s hair.

 

“I used to live in Seheron, before I was made a slave,” Fenris said pensively. “Or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”

 

“You’re native to Seheron,” Dorian said, taken aback, “And you don’t like fish?”

 

One corner of Fenris’s mouth twitched into a grin. “I suppose I made do,” he replied lightly.

 

Dorian grinned weakly back, fighting to hide the worry he knew was etched on his face. He took a deep breath, and decided to press his luck. “Are you frightened?”

 

“Of course I am,” Fenris answered, heading back for Merrill’s house with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But we still have more we must do today, do we not?”

 

Dorian followed with a sigh, dreading what they were about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again for reading!! By the way, I've decided this fic will be ending with 26 chapters, if you want to get a sense for where we are in the story.


	20. Blood is Thicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning: this chapter has some very mild ...gore(?) in relation to Fenris's markings (think scarification). Again, it's extremely mild, but I don't want you to feel unprepared for it.

“There’s not much to be done about the pain, except perhaps this,” Dorian said, pulling a battered bottle of Golden Scythe 4:90 Black from his bag and tossing it to Fenris.

 

Fenris’s lopsided smirk returned to his face, though his nervousness still showed in his eyes. He let out an exhale that was almost a laugh as he turned the bottle over in his hands. “Where did you get this?”

 

“Nicked it from the Inquisitor’s personal stash,” Dorian replied. “But please refrain from telling her that. I value my life.”

 

“That is on you, Altus,” Fenris said, opening the bottle with a just barely audible chuckle.

 

Merrill handed Fenris a clean towel as he took a huge swig of the alcohol. “You could try biting on this too,” she offered sympathetically.

 

He gave her a nod as he set the towel aside and took another drink, wincing at the taste. “I’m certain I’ve endured worse, but thank you,” he said, not seeming to notice the way Merrill all but recoiled in shock at his civility.

 

Dorian waited for a little while, until he thought the alcohol was likely taking effect, before asking Fenris if he was ready.

 

Fenris nodded solemnly in reply, lying as still as possible.

 

Merrill steadied the scalpel in her hand and slowly, carefully, made the first incision in Fenris’s leg, following along the ink outlines she had made earlier. Dorian found himself having to avert his eyes, feeling as if a thousand cold needles were running up and down his spine. He looked instead at Fenris’s face. Fenris’s eyes were squeezed shut tightly, brow furrowed, but he otherwise looked surprisingly unperturbed.

 

Dorian’s eyes traveled downward along the old lyrium brands. Fenris had already endured this a hundred times over. This same excruciating process was performed for each and every marking on his body.

 

And this wasn’t even half of it.

 

“I’m done with this one,” Merrill announced after what felt like an eternity.

 

Dorian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was his turn now. He moved closer, the sensation of frozen needles on his back increasing tenfold as he looked at the wound, the skin cut and peeled away to reveal the flesh beneath, red and raw and bloody.

 

Concentrating as hard as he could, he sent a small, controlled wave of healing magic through the wound, feeling Fenris’s body relax just slightly under his touch. He wanted to simply heal it fully and be done with it, but he had to be careful to heal it only just barely, just enough so that the cut away skin still formed grooves where the lyrium could be applied.

 

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he finished. Only five more to go.

 

They repeated the process, slow and excruciating, for each one. It never got easier, though Fenris was amazingly calm throughout. Even as Merrill cut away the lines on his face, clearly more painful for him than any of the other portions, he didn’t make a sound. Dorian chastised himself internally for how badly he wanted to whimper himself.

 

Healing the lines on Fenris’s face was easier – facial scars tend not to become raised, so Dorian could heal them a little more completely than the rest. That was somewhat comforting, although the heat of Fenris’s fever that he could feel radiating from his forehead was worrying.

 

Once Dorian was finished he sat back with a nervous breath, feeling boneless as the tension left his body. Fenris had relaxed a great deal as he’d healed him, and now looked peaceful in a way that felt out of place.

 

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked.

 

Fenris’s eyes fluttered slowly open. “The healing helped,” he replied vaguely.

 

Elsa brought Fenris a glass of water, and he sat up carefully to drink it.

 

“Varric had the lyrium we’ll need sent to me,” Merrill explained, “So we can do the rest tomorrow.”

 

_The rest._

 

-

 

Though Fenris was more tired than he’d ever felt, he stared at the ceiling, wide awake. It was happening tomorrow. That fact made the fear and anxiety that had been haunting him at the back of his mind since they left Skyhold compound to send his heart into a frenzy, pounding out of time in his chest, forcing his breath to be short and uneven.

 

“You’re going to be alright,” Dorian said suddenly from his side of the room.

 

Fenris tensed up, eyes still locked on the ceiling. “There is no way to be certain,” he said stiffly.

 

“I suppose not,” Dorian replied. “But I believe you will, and I want that to be enough.”

 

“It matters not what you want, fool,” Fenris said, softly, and as usual it almost felt like an endearment. He cast his gaze across the room to find Dorian looking back at him. There was something intense and deep in Dorian’s eyes, churning like the waves during a storm at sea. Fenris wanted nothing more than to calm it, but he did not know how.

 

“You’re going to be alright,” Dorian repeated, looking away suddenly. “I will make sure of it.”

 

Something unspoken hung heavily in the air between them.

 

-

 

Fenris eventually fell into a deep sleep, likely more from pure exhaustion than anything else. Dorian, on the other hand, could not fall asleep. After tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, he decided to try a distraction.

 

He had not had the foresight to bring a book, but Fenris had. Slipping out of bed, he conjured a dim light that he hoped would allow him to see without waking Fenris, and crept across the room.

 

The book was lying on top of Fenris’s other belongings, and Dorian thanked the Maker and Andraste both that he wouldn’t have to think about going through Fenris’s bags. He grabbed the book and began to retreat to his bed, but something fell from the pages as he did.

 

An envelope. The letter from Varania.

 

Varania didn’t know. Her brother was ill, and could even die, and she might never know.

 

Dorian picked up the letter, chewing at his lip in uncertainty as he turned it over in his hands. He recalled what little he knew about Varania: she had been willing to condemn her own brother to a life enslaved by a man as vile as Danarius, and for what? Her own social standing?

 

There was suddenly a bitter taste in Dorian’s mouth, and he wrinkled his nose. It was all too familiar. Had she truly written the apology out of remorse, or did she do it just so that she could sleep better at night? So that she could conveniently forget that she had been willing to force her own family into a fate worse than death?

 

Anger melded with his fear and worry and clawed its way out in all directions from Dorian’s chest, seizing his every muscle as it went, like a poison rapidly seeping into his body.

 

He would tell her. He would tell Varania _exactly_ what was going on.

 

Pulling some parchment from his bags, he sat down to work. The resentment poured out of him onto the page as he explained Fenris’s illness, filling every word with spite and accusation that, if he was honest with himself, wasn’t entirely meant for Varania.

 

He hastily folded the letter, addressed it to Varania’s shop in Minrathous, and dropped it into the locked courier box that sat downstairs in the Hanged Man before he had a chance to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having some computer trouble lately because of course I am, but I should still be able to update this fic as frequently as I have been. So if you like how fast I update, please don't worry. *nervous smile*
> 
> And thank you again for reading!


	21. To Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning: this chapter has... graphic blood magic? I know the way using blood magic looks could be a little sensitive, so I just wanted to give you a head's up.

Watching Merrill drag a crate of healing potions into the room raised a concern Dorian had not adequately thought about before. What little they had of Danarius’s notes were not clear on the amount of blood he ended up using for the ritual, and while this was only six relatively small markings compared to those that covered Fenris’s entire body, they had no way of really knowing how much would ultimately be needed to augment Merrill’s spellpower. Merrill would be using her own blood as well as doing all the casting, and Dorian was beginning to worry that it might be too much for her.

 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asked hesitantly, eyeing the dozen or so health potions that Merrill was carefully lining up within easy reach.

 

She bristled, clearly on edge. “I know what I’m doing,” she said defensively.

 

“Do you?” Fenris shot back, sitting with his arms crossed impatiently. “I seem to recall you saying that before, when—”

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Merrill interrupted with force, her voice louder and fiercer than Dorian had ever heard it. He flinched back. Fenris’s scowl deepened.

 

“Emotional stability is conducive to a favourable outcome,” Elsa said in her strict monotone, not looking up from the small end table where she was arranging an alchemical burner for the lyrium alongside her tools for enchantment. “Arguing now is unwise.”

 

Dorian sighed. “She’s right, you know,” he added cautiously.

 

Fenris huffed, which was about as close to an admission of fault as any of them could expect. Merrill scrubbed at her face with her hands, trying to relax.

 

The plan was simple enough, but Dorian’s part in it was frustratingly minimal. Merrill would be casting the spells according to what he and Dagna had written based on Danarius’s notes, while Elsa would be heating and applying the lyrium. Dorian could not handle lyrium as a tranquil could, and even if he was willing to perform blood magic, he was certainly not practiced enough for a ritual of this caliber. Instead, Dorian would simply be assisting with whatever else needed done.

 

Important enough, he supposed, but he still felt useless.

 

Fenris was irritable, and seemed even more tired than he had in the days since they’d left Skyhold. The fever that had been with him on and off was beginning to increase in severity each day, a constant reminder that they didn’t have much time.

 

“I- I think I’m ready,” Merrill said nervously.

 

“As am I,” Elsa said.

 

They all solemnly took their positions. There was an unimaginable tightness in Dorian’s chest that made it impossible for his breathing to fill his lungs, try as he might. This ritual wasn’t hypothetical any more. It was really happening.

 

Merrill drew a breath with a just barely detectable tremor and picked up her knife, carefully making a shallow cut in her arm as she began to chant the spell quietly. Fenris’s body immediately went stiff against his will, leaving him prone and paralyzed.

 

Elsa ladled a portion of the molten lyrium from over the burner into a small bowl and passed some of her tools to Dorian before she knelt down at Fenris’s side. Working quickly, she applied the lyrium to the first wound on Fenris’s leg, spreading it evenly into every curve and angle.

 

The flow of blood from the small cut on Merrill’s arm was already drying up. Frantically, Merrill grabbed ahold of her knife and opened another wound, cutting it carelessly deep in her haste. She didn’t so much as flinch, masterful as she was, and began to chant the next spell of the ritual.

 

The spell forced the lyrium downwards, fusing the burning hot metal with Fenris’s raw, unhealed flesh. A strangled cry of anguish managed to tear its way past his paralyzed lips.

 

Everything went white.

 

-

 

_Quickly, he wiped the blood from his face to keep it from dripping into his eyes and blinding him as he circled the final opponent. His breath was coming in ragged, ineffective gasps. He had taken a hard blow to the ribs in the preceding match, and he thought it very possible that a broken bone had punctured his lung._

_He had to ignore it._

_The arena was relatively small, but even so it was mostly empty, save for the Magister and his private party. Nevertheless, their excited cheers seemed deafening over the blood that sloshed and pounded in his ears._

_He could not give up. He had to endure._

_His opponent was a young human man with a tall, muscular build. The man was likely stronger than him physically, and was not nearly as exhausted, but he moved with the slightest limp in his left leg. He would have to exploit that._

_His family could be free. He only had to push harder, and win._

_With a fierce cry, he lunged for the man’s left side._

-

 

Gently, Dorian and Elsa repositioned Fenris onto his stomach so they could begin working on his back. Merrill drank two healing potions in rapid succession. Her face had gone pale, and her hands trembled as she lifted the bottles to her lips. When she opened her eyes again they seemed glassy and lifeless.

 

“I’m fine,” she said weakly when she noticed the way Dorian stared up at her, brow furrowed in concern.

 

She resumed her chanting, clenching her fists to stimulate the flow of blood into her spell.

 

-

 

_“We have a winner!” a booming voice announced._

_His sword slipped from his grasp as he took a ragged breath and stumbled forward onto his knees on the sandy ground._

_“Get the healer!” a voice cried from somewhere, sending the servants into a frenzy. “Make sure you can’t see so much as a scratch on him!”_

_A rattling cough tore from his throat, sending droplets of blood splattering before him to dye the sand deep red. Every inch of his body was wracked with a piercing pain, but he would endure. He had to endure._

_They would be free._

_The Magister grinned down at him from his seat in the stands, face half obscured by the shade of the parasols. “I’m glad this one was the victor,” he said to the man beside him, loudly, as if he was not really speaking to the man beside him at all. “He fought like a rabid wolf.”_

_“Wolves have been known to chew off their own legs when trapped,” the other man replied skeptically._

_The Magister laughed. “No… I believe this one wants to be tamed.”_

_Tamed._

_The world began to spin around him, colours bleeding together, and the ground rushed up to meet him._

 

-

 

Merrill was wavering – Dorian could feel her spellpower suddenly begin to weaken rapidly. He spun around to see her staggering where she stood, eyes unfocused as she pushed on with the spell.

 

“She’s losing too much blood,” Elsa said, the clinical detachment of her voice ringing hauntingly in his ears.

 

The spell was intricate, layered. It needed massive amount of power and massive amounts of concentration. Danarius had probably bled countless slaves for even just a fraction of the full ritual. It had been too uncomfortable to think about – and now they were paying for that reckless oversight.

 

“ _Kaffas_.” Dorian leapt to his feet, frantically rushing to Merrill’s side.

 

His mind was racing. He pulled a chair from under the table and took hold of Merrill’s upper arm, guiding her to sit down. Her skin felt icy – cold as death. Panic tightened its grip on his heart. He grabbed a bottle of healing potion from the table and pushed it into her hands. She nodded weakly in thanks.

 

If he didn’t do something now, she wasn’t going to make it.

 

“Use my blood instead!” Dorian cried, his voice seeming to him like it came from another place, another time. Before he fully realized what he was doing he had taken up Merrill’s knife and made a careless slash up the length of his forearm.

 

Merrill’s mouth fell open, stunned. She looked as if she wanted to refuse, but she knew as well as the rest of them that they were running out of options. Collecting herself as quickly as she could, she drank the potion in one gulp and began to cast again, this time drawing on Dorian’s blood instead of her own.

 

Dorian gritted his teeth, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before; all of the blood in his body being forcefully pulled to flow in the wrong direction, seeming to catch on the walls of his veins as it fought against the current. It sent his stomach churning violently, bile rising in his throat.

 

He choked it down. He had to endure.

 

Fenris was going to make it.

 

He just had to endure.


	22. Wake Up

Heavy.

 

Heavy, as if his entire body was suddenly made of lead. His muscles felt impossibly stiff, aching yet numb at the same time.

 

Sharp stinging pain at certain points on his body, where even the soft brush of cotton sheets felt like claws scraping harshly against him, tearing into his flesh. Something drawing his skin too tightly, centered where the pain was most intense: his face, his upper back, his legs – pulling, pulling.

 

The metallic smell of blood. Or was it actually metal?

 

He forced his eyes to open.

 

Unfamiliar. A room he had never seen before. Someone sitting in a chair nearby.

 

“Thank the Maker,” the figure breathed, almost too quietly to hear.

 

Dorian.

 

Dorian…

 

His eyelids slid heavily closed, pulling him back into a dreamless darkness.

 

-

 

“He was awake earlier,” Dorian said. “For hardly any time at all, but it’s something.”

 

“I think that’s a good sign,” Merrill said with a nod, sipping from a teacup she held clutched in both hands, a quilt draped around her shoulders. She eyed Dorian with poorly concealed worry over the rim of her cup when she thought he wasn’t looking.

 

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

 

“Yes, I am. Thank you,” Merrill replied. “It feels a bit like I’m getting over a cold, only I’m not sneezing. Or coughing. So maybe it’s not really like a cold at all, then.” She absently tapped a fingernail against her teacup, tilting her head thoughtfully.

 

“Sorry again about the bed situation,” Dorian said with a sympathetic frown.

 

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Merrill said with a smile. “Fenris needs a place to rest, and I don’t mind sharing with Elsa. The way she sleeps is a little creepy, though. Stiff as a board.”

 

Dorian couldn’t help but to laugh. Before he could reply, a knock at the door echoed from the other room.

 

“I’ll get it,” Merrill sang out, hopping to her feet and heading out of the room with the quilt trailing behind her like a cloak.

 

Feeling lighter, Dorian turned his attention back to Fenris. His face looked peaceful as he slept, even with the new lyrium brands etched angrily along his cheekbones, the edges still raw and red because Dorian was too worried about disrupting them to try healing them. A stray lock of hair had fallen across Fenris’s right eyelid, and Dorian reached to brush it away before he fully realized he was doing it.

 

“You must be _him_ ,” a sensual voice said, startling him into jerking his hand back unceremoniously.

 

Dorian looked up to see a curvy Rivaini woman standing in the doorway, eyeing him with a seductive smirk from beneath an ornately decorated admiral’s hat.

 

“This is Isabela,” Merrill piped up from somewhere behind her.

 

Dorian stood and gave a graceful half-bow. “Dorian, of house Pavus,” he said, slipping into his default flirtatious tone, reaching an inviting hand towards her. “Lovely to meet you, Isabela.”

 

“Oh, I like you,” Isabela said with a grin, tipping her hat. She stepped forward, ignoring Dorian’s outstretched hand and instead giving him a slow look up and down, humming thoughtfully. “Nice muscle tone… dark hair… mustache… a mage… Our dear Fenris has a type, I see.”

 

Merrill giggled, stepping into the room. “Isabela!” she exclaimed, sounding delightfully scandalized. “I thought Fenris seemed sweet on him! Fenris does those puppy eyes when he’s sweet on someone.”

 

Dorian sputtered, feeling his face flush red. Embarrassing, like a schoolchild with a crush.

 

“Interesting reaction,” Isabela commented before he could defend himself. She took a breath and removed her hat, her demeanor shifting completely as she cast her gaze to Fenris’s sleeping form. “Varric wrote me about it. How is he?”

 

“I think he’ll be back to his old spiteful self soon enough,” Dorian answered. “Although, we probably shouldn’t crowd him like this.”

 

“I’d like to sit with him for a while, if that’s alright,” Isabela said tentatively, clutching her hat in both hands.

 

“…Of course,” Dorian replied hesitantly. He’d been at Fenris’s side constantly since the night before with no sleep, only eating at Merrill’s insistence, and even so he felt reluctant to leave.

 

“You should get some rest,” Merrill said as they left the room, as if she had read his mind. She patted his back gently with one quilt-covered hand. “This was all very hard on you, too.”

 

-

 

_“I trust there’s not so much as a scratch left on him?” The Magister’s voice carried into the room from the hallway, seeming to coil around him in his worry._

_Would this man to keep his word? Would it be too much to ask for?_

_“Yes, Magister Danarius,” the healer answered meekly. “We… We did our best to remove any old scarring as well, but… well… it’s nearly impossible to do anything about a wound that’s already healed. You have to look closely, but there are still some there.”_

_There was a moment of deafening silence before the Magister spoke again._

_“I suppose that cannot be helped. You are dismissed.”_

_Could this man be reasonable?_

_He leapt out of bed at the sound of the door sliding open, scrambling into position with his hands at his back and his eyes cast respectfully down, slouching his shoulders forward to show submission. Perhaps if he behaved as obediently as possible, he wouldn’t have to worry about whether his request would be granted or not._

_It was worth a try, at any rate._

_The Magister’s sandals scraped softly on the stone floor as he circled around slowly – once, twice – before coming to a stop in front of him._

_“What is your name, boy?”_

_“My name is Leto, Master,” he said._

…Leto?

 

_The Magister huffed, displeased. “Leto,” he repeated. “Ugly name.”_

_He froze. Should he reply to that? Apologize? He’d been a slave in this man’s service for years, but he’d never been important enough to even be inside the house at all, let alone to be in his presence, so he had no real working knowledge of etiquette. He took a deep breath, and decided to remain silent._

_It was apparently the right choice._

_“Are you feeling well? Fully healed?” The Magister asked, his voice softening, gentle._

_“Yes, Master,” he replied._

_“Good.” The Magister reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of his downcast face. “I promised a boon to the winner, did I not? And I am certain that is what you’re waiting for. So, what is it you wish?”_

_He took a deep breath. “My mother and sister are slaves in your service, Master,” he said carefully, as if the words themselves could blow back into his face and burn him. “I… I humbly request their freedom.”_

_The Magister was silent for a moment, impossibly long, before letting out a short laugh. “Is that all?” he asked. He sounded… pleased._

_“Yes, Master.”_

_“Very well,” The Magister said. “I will grant them their freedom first thing tomorrow, and I will show you my seal on the paperwork to prove that I kept my word. Is this acceptable?”_

_“Yes, Master,” he answered, a bittersweet joy swelling in his chest._

_“I will have an assistant come here later. You will show him to your mother and sister, and you will be allowed to say your goodbyes at that time,” The Magister said firmly. “And do rest well tonight. We have much to do in the coming days.”_

_“Y-yes, Master.”_

-

 

“You know, you really ought to wake up soon,” Isabela cooed softly, taking Fenris’s hand into her own as he slept. “I think it’s the only way this Dorian of yours will let himself get any rest.”

 

Fenris’s nose twitched as if he was going to sneeze. The ghost of a smile pulled at Isabela’s lips.

 

“You can hear me, can’t you?” she said, toying with his fingers. “Listen, you have to tell me how he is in bed when you wake up.”

 

Fenris groaned and rolled onto his side.

 

“It’s a promise, then,” Isabela said with a satisfied laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to a resolution... Just a few more loose ends to tie up! I really hope you're still enjoying, and thank you for reading!


	23. Red Hair

The knock at the door was loud and intimidating, startling Dorian into jumping back, rudely awakened from where he’d dozed off at the table, as Merrill rushed to answer it. A tall, sturdy woman dressed in the armor of the Kirkwall city guard stood imposingly on the other side.

 

Dorian rubbed at his eyes, trying to dispel the fog of sleep deprivation from his mind. What would a guardsman be doing here? His heart leapt into his throat. It had been a few days since they completed the ritual – had she somehow been alerted to blood magic being practiced here? Would a guardsman be sent for that? He wracked his tired brain for an excuse, any excuse.

 

“Hello, Aveline!” Merrill said joyfully.

 

Dorian blinked. _Oh._

 

“Yes, hello, Merrill,” Aveline replied, voice clipped as she stepped inside. “Would you care to explain this to me?”

 

She pulled a sheet of parchment from an envelope and held it up for Merrill to see. Merrill’s round eyes shone with curiosity. Dorian squinted to read it from where he sat. There were only two sentences, written large and hastily across the page in Varric’s looping script:

 

_Red,_

_Go pick up Fenris from Daisy’s house, won’t you? I’m sure she wants her bed back and I know you have room for a guest._

_Varric Tethras_

 

“How did he know?” Dorian asked, stunned.

 

“Varric always thinks of everything!” Merrill exclaimed, delighted.

 

“Yes, yes, how very _thoughtful_ of him,” Aveline said with exasperated sarcasm. “Now would you please tell me what is going on here?”

 

“Hey there, big girl,” Isabela purred, appearing in the doorway to Merrill’s bedroom.

 

“Is that where Fenris is?” Aveline asked as if to a group of unruly children. Before any of them had a chance to answer she had crossed the room, freezing in place as she stepped into the doorframe. “Maker’s mercy, what have you done to him?”

 

Merrill and Dorian exchanged guilty looks as Isabela leaned against the wall with a smirk.

 

“It’s a long story,” Dorian said hesitantly. “The short version is…” He paused, grappling for the words. “His markings were killing him, and they had to be modified to keep that from happening.”

 

Aveline turned to really look at him for the first time since she’d arrived, eyes narrowing skeptically.

 

“I’m Dorian, by the way,” he added hastily. He gave a nervous smile and prayed this woman would not kill him.

 

Aveline took a breath and crossed her arms with a frown. “I expect a thorough explanation later, from all of you,” she said firmly. “But first thing’s first, we’re moving him to my house. I have a guest room, and besides, it’s safer in Hightown.”

 

She disappeared into Merrill’s bedroom. The other three exchanged glances again, before Dorian realized he should probably be helping. Fenris was deceptively heavy, after all.

 

He leapt up and began to head towards the bedroom when Aveline reappeared with Fenris wrapped up in a sheet and hoisted onto her back, carrying him effortlessly, as if he weighed hardly anything at all. Dorian recoiled in surprise, nearly knocking himself over. Isabela laughed as she hurried to hold the front door open.

 

“She’s a woman-shaped battering ram,” Isabela declared with a proud grin.

 

“Bring his belongings, you two,” Aveline called back as she left the house with Isabela. “Merrill knows where I live.”

 

Fenris’s sleeping face lolled forward into Aveline’s thick red hair.

 

-

 

_Red hair._

_She chased after him out of the slave quarters in a flash of dirty red hair as mother watched helplessly from the doorway. She cut in front of him, her small fists beating ineffectually against his chest as she cried, sobs unabashedly loud, not caring how it looked for a girl her age to be carrying on in such a way._

_“I don’t want to be free!” she screamed, barely intelligible through the convulsive gasps that shook her body. “I don’t want to be free!”_

_Again and again she shouted it, a prayer to make everything go back to the way it was._

_“There’s nothing for you here,” he whispered, voice low as he rubbed soothing circles into her back. “When you’re free you’ll finally be able to have a real life. Mother will tell you the same. She remembers even better than I.”_

_“No,” she cried, dropping her fists and pressing her tear-streaked face against his shoulder instead, her long, matted hair tickling his bare arms._

_Her sobs began to abate as he continued rubbing circles into her back, just as he had always done, ever since they were both very small. Slowly, her breathing began to even out._

_“Varania,” he whispered gently. “It’s going to be alright.”_

_“I don’t care!” She drew a harsh breath that shook her narrow frame, voice muffled against his shoulder as she spoke. “I don’t want a real life. I don’t want to be free without you.”_

_The Magister’s assistant huffed, his patience finally coming to an end. “Enough of this nonsense!” he barked, yanking Varania unceremoniously away from her brother._

_He looked back over his shoulder as the assistant lead him away, watching helplessly as the momentum from the man’s push sent his sister tumbling backwards into the dirt._

_“Leto!” she shrieked, but the assistant was already directing him roughly up the stairs._

_He couldn’t protect her anymore._

-

 

Merrill suggested that she gather up what might be needed from her house while Dorian went to get the rest of Fenris’s belongings left in their room at the Hanged Man. They would meet outside afterwards, and she would lead the way to Aveline’s house. Simple enough.

 

An elven woman was watching the door closely from a table in the center of the room as he entered the Hanged Man, and he felt her eyes on him as he headed for the staircase. Dorian had become more conscious of the stares he would get most places in Kirkwall, though normally the Hanged Man was an exception as most of the clientele was to drunk to notice him, or to care.

 

Something felt strange.

 

Dorian glanced again at the woman as he passed. Her skin was pale, striking against fiery red hair. She was still watching him, shifting in her seat as if she wanted to do something but was held back by uncertainty.

 

“Wait,” she called out at last, standing to hurry over to him.

 

She paused before him, wringing her hands nervously. There was something oddly familiar about her face, though he couldn’t place exactly what it was.

 

“Are you Altus Pavus?” she asked with the thick accent of someone who had never spent much time outside of Tevinter. “Altus Dorian Pavus?”

 

“Yes, actually…” he replied hesitantly. There was something here, something he was missing.

 

“I received your letter,” she said solemnly. “About my brother.”

 

The letter. He’d forgotten about the letter.

 

“You’re Varania,” Dorian said, and it felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath his feet. Suddenly it all made sense: the colour of her eyes, the shape of her nose… other than her skin tone and her hair, she looking strikingly like her brother. A wave of guilt came crashing over him, thinking of how accusatory his letter had been. “I… I suppose I own you an apology for that. The things I wrote were… unkind.”

 

Varania shook her head. “No, I am only glad that someone thought to tell me what was happening. I wouldn’t have known otherwise.” She shifted anxiously. “I-is he…”

 

Dorian cursed himself mentally for not mentioning that first. “He’s going to be fine. He’s been sleeping more often than not the past few days, but he’s going to be fine,” he said. “Actually, I’m here to pick up his things. You may join me, if you wish. I… I’ll explain more on the way.”

 

Some of the tension rushed visibly from Varania’s body. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After staring at screencaps of Varania's face for a truly inordinate amount of time, I really do think she looks a lot like Fenris. Dorian still looks nothing like his father to me though.


	24. Varania

Aveline pressed a pitcher of water into Varania’s hands, watching her with decidedly unsubtle distrust as she took it and hurried up the stairs. Donnic and Merrill’s murmuring voices carried from the room at the end of the hall where they were busy getting Fenris settled, and Varania followed after them, slipping into the guest bedroom and pulling the door shut carefully behind her with a soft click.

 

“I don’t trust her,” Aveline said quietly once the door was closed, standing with her arms crossed at the bottom of the stairs. “We saw before how duplicitous she can be.”

 

“Aw, I kind of like her,” Isabela replied, stretching out on the hideous tapestry sofa.

 

“That’s because _you’re_ duplicitous,” Aveline shot back. Isabela laughed, and the two exchanged an oddly fond look. Dorian cleared his throat.

 

“At any rate, I don’t think she’ll do anything rash now. She’s alone in a house full of Fenris’s heavily armed friends, after all,” he observed, trying to relax back into one of Aveline’s overstuffed armchairs. “She wasn’t even carrying a staff.”

 

Aveline narrowed her eyes. “She was part of an ambush before. She could have someone following her.”

 

“Danarius is dead. Who else would come after Fenris like that?” Isabela said. She let out a sigh, eyes fixated on the ceiling. “I say we give her a chance. People really can change, you know.”

 

“You’re suggesting we do nothing at all as a precaution?” Aveline asked with a frown.

 

“Exactly,” Isabela replied, rolling onto her side and draping her arm languidly over the sofa’s armrest. “And if things go sour, we fight our way out of it!”

 

“I like the way you think,” Dorian said.

 

-

 

_“Tell me about Seheron again,” she demanded, adjusting her sackcloth tunic haughtily before plopping down gracelessly in the dirt._

_He rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said._

_He reached over to snap a twig off a nearby grapevine, testing the sturdiness of the wood in his bony fingers before joining his sister on the ground. She scooted closer._

_“Seheron’s got a big jungle,” he began, using the twig to sketch the shapes of trees into the dirt as he spoke. “That’s like a forest ‘cept it’s real hot and it rains more. The trees are really big and tall, and they get this weird moss on them like this.” He added spindly moss draping down from the tree branches._

_He leaned back to examine his drawing with a frown. Was this what it looked like? His memories of Seheron were blurry, disjointed. Details that he used to know perfectly well were fading day by day, and it made him want to cry in frustration._

_He noticed Varania watching him with round, curious eyes, and he forced himself to snap out of it._

_“It_ sorta _looked like this,” he said at last, uncertain. “It gets really foggy, anyway, so it’s hard to see.” He dragged the stick across the bottom half of the drawing in uneven lines, blurring the edges._

_“Was it scary?” Varania asked, entranced by his messy sketch._

_“I wasn’t scared!” he declared audaciously. “It’s really fun to play in the jungle. You’ll see when I take you there.” He gave her a big, confident smile that had her clapping her hands with childish joy._

-

 

Varania paused as she set the pitcher of water on the nightstand, looking over her brother’s face as he slept. It was strange – he looked so much as she remembered him from before, save those markings, only a superficial change and yet they changed so much. He was still Leto at his core, but his fierce and confident personality had been tempered by hatred into something vengeful, bitter, and frightening. Those markings had almost killed him, several times over.

 

And he had _asked_ for this, not for his own sake but for her. And she had, in her lack of understanding, thrown it back in his face.

 

Fenris made a small noise at the back of his throat, and his eyelids began to flutter open. Varania froze.

 

She had betrayed him, and he had thought to kill her for it. Dread seized her, sending her heartbeat racing out of time. She didn’t want him to see her here. Not yet. Varania fled the room, ignoring Merrill when she called after her in confusion.

 

The others stood up in alarm as she rushed down the stairs. She halted abruptly, taking a calming breath, thinking of how her franticness must have looked to them.

 

“I believe he’s waking up,” she explained, before pointedly meeting Dorian’s gaze. “You… You should be there.”

 

Dorian looked stunned, but had the sense to hurry past her to the guest bedroom without asking any questions. The others followed close behind. Varania sighed, leaning heavily against the railing.

 

Isabela stopped to lean beside her. “Shouldn’t you be up there too?” she asked.

 

“The last time he saw me, I was ready to sell him back into slavery to save myself,” Varania said, eyes downcast. “I don’t think I should be the first person he sees now.”

 

Isabela placed a reassuring hand on Varania’s shoulder. “But you do intend to see him.”

 

Varania nodded solemnly. “It is… important to me, even though I know he’ll never forgive me.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” Isabela said with a meaningful smirk. “It wouldn’t be the most unexpected thing he’s ever done.” She gave Varania’s shoulder a squeeze and pushed back off the railing.

 

But before she was even able to begin walking up the stairs, the others appeared at the top, being herded back down by a rather impatient Aveline.

 

“Fenris was giving Dorian that look he used to give Hawke so I thought it’d be best if we left them alone,” Merrill explained when she saw Isabela and Varania’s confused expressions. Aveline rolled her eyes. Donnic looked positively mortified.

 

A victorious grin spread across Isabela’s face. “Good work, kitten!” she exclaimed proudly, blowing Merrill a kiss that sent her into a frenzy of blushing. She ruffled Merrill’s cropped hair and then tried to slip past her up the stairs.

 

“Could you refrain from being inappropriate for just once in your life?” Aveline said exasperatedly, taking hold of Isabela’s arms and turning her back around.

 

“I won’t peek!” Isabela insisted. “I just want to eavesdrop!”

 

“No.”

 

-

 

Fenris was sitting up in bed, stretching his arms experimentally. He looked fully alert this time, which was a good thing, though Dorian almost wished he wasn’t in light of… whatever it was Merrill was trying to do.

 

“You’re looking better,” Dorian said, shifting awkwardly near the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Sore,” Fenris replied, voice rough from disuse. Dorian couldn’t help but notice the way the new markings on his face, the edges healing slowly but surely, shifted when he wrinkled his nose.

 

“Do you want to try getting out of bed?” Dorian offered.

 

Fenris nodded. “I would be happy to never see a bed again.”

 

“Ah, but there are so many entertaining uses for beds,” Dorian replied automatically, flirtatious by default.

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes, though one corner of his mouth twitched into a devious smirk. “You’re flirting with me,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, “As I lie in my sickbed.”

 

“You’re sitting up, but yes… I suppose I am,” Dorian said, fumbling.

 

“Just help me stand, fool,” Fenris said with a chuckle, deep and resonating, that sent a shockwave up Dorian’s spine.

 

Dorian offered a hand, and Fenris grasped it, pulling himself to his feet. He was unsteady at first, his legs shaky after several days without using them. Dorian hovered by him, ready to catch him should he start to fall, but he soon regained stability. Fenris took an experimental step forward, wincing at the stiffness in his knees and ankles. He took a few more slow, careful steps past Dorian.

 

The new markings over his shoulder blades blended in almost seamlessly with the older designs that flowed over his back, distinguished only by the lingering redness at their edges. Dorian watched transfixed as they shifted with Fenris’s muscles as he stretched. Even after having a taste of what the ritual that gave him the markings had been like, Dorian still found the way they twisted over Fenris’s body beautiful, and it sickened him a little to realize it.

 

“I wanted to thank you,” Fenris said suddenly, pulling Dorian from his thoughts. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

 

Something wound tight in Dorian’s chest, threatening to snap. “You may not want to thank me just yet,” he replied.

 

Fenris turned around carefully, eyeing him with one eyebrow raised.

 

“I… wrote a letter to your sister,” Dorian said falteringly. “She’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like thinking about Varania and Fenris having a close bond as children because I apparently enjoy sadness.
> 
> Also, that joke about sitting up might be my crowning achievement in life. I have no excuse.


	25. Stay With Me

When Dorian returned downstairs, Donnic had left for his patrol and the sitting room was empty. Instead, Dorian found the four others gathered around the kitchen table playing a game of Wicked Grace. Merrill and Isabela had managed to strike up a restrained but amicable conversation with Varania, while Aveline mostly just watched her suspiciously from across the table.

 

Aveline hastily set her cards face down when she saw Dorian enter the room. “How is he?” she asked. The other three went silent and turned towards him.

 

“He seems to be doing rather well,” Dorian said. “His fever is down, and he was up and walking a little bit.”

 

“That’s good!” Merrill said cheerfully.

 

Dorian drew a breath, and turned to Varania. “He asked to see you.”

 

“Oh,” Varania replied stiffly. She went tense, setting her cards down slowly.

 

“Are you frightened?” Isabela asked, resting a hand reassuringly atop Varania’s.

 

Varania sighed, and shook her head. “No, I’m not frightened… I’m only nervous. I’ll go speak with him.” She took a breath, stood from her seat with quiet determination, and headed out of the room.

 

“She’ll be fine, right?” Isabela said as Varania began to ascend the stairs.

 

“He won’t harm her,” Dorian replied with certainty.

 

There was a moment of crushing silence as they all watched Varania disappear upstairs and down the hall.

 

“Dorian, you should join our game,” Isabela said finally, tone lighter. She held up her mug. “We’re drinking coffee because Aveline is profoundly boring, but it’s still fun enough.”

 

“It’s not my fault that you're a lush,” Aveline shot back.

 

“I kind of like drinking coffee instead of ale,” Merrill added. “Ale makes me sleepy and I forget all the rules.”

 

Dorian laughed. “Sure, I’m game,” he said, pulling up a chair as Aveline dealt him in.

 

-

 

Fenris was perched at the edge of the mattress, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. His shoulders grew tense when Varania entered the room, but he did not look up as she sat cautiously in the chair beside the bed.

 

Neither of them spoke for some time. Neither of them knew where to begin.

 

“I remembered more about you recently. Memories from when we were children,” Fenris said at last. He paused, thoughtful. “I told you I would take you to Seheron.”

 

Both siblings looked up at the same time, meeting each other’s gaze.

 

The corners of Varania’s lips twitched upwards in a barely perceptible smile, bittersweet with the memory. “You used to tell me that a lot. Seheron meant freedom to you, I think.”

 

“You felt like I abandoned you.”

 

Varania averted her eyes, chewing nervously at the inside of her lip. “Yes,” she replied, her breath rushing out as if she’d just let go of a heavy burden. “I was just barely a teenager. You were the one who had always protected me, but suddenly you were gone.” She paused, wringing her hands. “I didn’t know what to do. There aren’t many options for a liberati elf. You couldn’t have known that, but I blamed you.”

 

“You’re saying slavery was better?” Fenris asked, appalled.

 

Varania shook her head. “I’m saying slavery was easier,” she corrected, “Before I learned how to be free.”

 

Her words seemed to constrict around Fenris’s throat. He closed his eyes as images of the group of Fog Warriors that had taken him in, that had been so kind to him, that he had betrayed at a simple command from Danarius, flashed through his mind.

 

“I understand,” he said after a moment.

 

Varania drew a deep breath to steel herself. “I would like it if we could start over. I do not know if you’re the same person I once knew, but you’re still my brother. I want to be a better sister to you, if you’ll allow it.”

 

“I… I think I’d like that,” Fenris replied with a feeble but genuine smile. Varania returned the smile nervously. Another silence fell over the two, but this time it did not feel quite so suffocating.

 

“About that man,” Varania said finally. “Dorian.”

 

“What about him?” Fenris asked, brow furrowed.

 

“I’m happy you have someone like him.”

 

-

 

Dorian went upstairs after Varania and the others had left, to find Fenris lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

 

“Your sister thanked me profusely on her way out, so I’m assuming that went well,” Dorian said as he sat at the foot of the bed.

 

“I believe it did,” Fenris replied with a nod. Something about him looked brighter.

 

“She’s staying at the Hanged Man, but she said she’d be back to see you tomorrow,” Dorian added.

 

“Thank you,” Fenris said sincerely.

 

Dorian laughed uncomfortably. “I’m not used to all this gratitude. It’s unnatural,” he said. “Perhaps you could praise my undeniable charm and incredible good looks instead.”

 

Fenris sat up, bringing them face-to-face. “Shut up, fool,” he replied, and leaned in to press his lips against Dorian’s. The kiss was short, chaste – and Dorian felt it more deeply than anything he’d ever felt before as it sent his heart leaping upwards in his chest. When Fenris pulled away, Dorian had to remind himself to breathe.

 

“I had thought…” Dorian began, but faltered, at a loss for words in his surprise and confusion.

 

Fenris was staring at him with an eyebrow raised in question. Dorian shook his head. He leaned in and pressed an equally short, chaste kiss to Fenris’s lips. He pulled back, just barely, just enough to see Fenris’s closed eyes, and asked softly, “Is this alright?”

 

Fenris’s eyes opened for a moment and he huffed, before kissing Dorian again by way of an answer.

 

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured against Dorian’s lips, voice rumbling and low, sending electricity arcing through Dorian’s nerves.

 

“If that is what you wish,” Dorian whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just realized how short this chapter is. Sorry...
> 
> Anyway, there's only one more chapter left after this and I hope you're looking forward to it! It's, uh, significantly longer than this one. Also it has what might be the least explicit (and hopefully isn't the most awkward) sex scene ever. *lays down and dies* Go easy on me.
> 
> And thanks again to everyone who's still reading up to this point!!


	26. To Be Foolish

“Writing a letter, are you?” Dorian said as he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Please tell me it’s a _scandalous_ letter. Maker knows I could use the excitement.”

 

Fenris snorted, not looking up from where the dictionary Aveline and Donnic had given him as a get-well present sat open beside him as he worked. “It’s for Varania,” he said impatiently. He scanned over the words listed on the page, marking the one he was looking for with one finger and carefully copying the correct spelling onto the parchment.

 

“You recall that she only just left this morning, yes?”

 

Fenris set his pen down and leveled a venomous glare at Dorian.

 

Dorian raised both hands palm forward in surrender. “Yes, yes, I know. You have to make up for a lot of lost time and you want to be certain you do it right,” he said. “And, as usual, here I am putting my foot into my mouth.”

 

Fenris huffed, but his expression softened. He picked the pen back up, absently rolling it between his fingers.

 

“Dorian,” Fenris began, but faltered, looking conflicted. A moment passed, and he shook his head. “I believe we should move back to the room at the Hanged Man tonight.”

 

“You _want_ to go back there?” Dorian asked incredulously. “It’s clean here.”

 

“I am aware of that,” Fenris replied impatiently. “But it is time we moved on.”

 

Dorian’s gaze flitted over the new markings along Fenris’s cheekbones, the edges now fully healed. “You believe you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

 

“Did you know Aveline used to change guard patrols so I wouldn’t be caught squatting in Hightown?” Fenris said distantly. “With her, I have always overstayed my welcome.” He set his pen back down, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before meeting Dorian’s eyes again, his gaze so intense that Dorian forgot to breathe. His voice became lower, rougher, as he added, “And besides, I would like to spend some time alone with you.”

 

The sound of his voice raced up Dorian’s spine and sent electricity tingling out through his body. “I see,” Dorian replied with a devious smirk.

 

-

 

Fenris moved like a man who knew the world was ending tomorrow. Although, with everything that had happened, it wasn’t crazy to think that it could.

 

The moment Dorian pulled the door shut behind them, Fenris had him pushed back against it, bringing their lips together in a desperate rush of hitched breath and careless touch. Dorian froze in surprise for only a moment before returning the kiss fervently. He tangled one hand in Fenris’s hair just as he had the first time they’d kissed in Skyhold’s library, loving the coarse texture between his fingers. Fenris pushed closer, moving his lips to Dorian’s jaw and neck as his hands began deftly unfastening Dorian’s robe with surprising speed. Dorian pulled back, just slightly.

 

“We have all night,” he reminded Fenris softly.

 

Fenris halted and looked up at him with darkened eyes. “I do not wish to wait any longer than I already have,” he replied, voice impossibly rough. “Unless, you do not want…”

 

Dorian shook his head. “No, I want this.” He grinned, leaning in and whispering low in Fenris’s ear, “I _want_ this.”

 

A deep sound rumbled at the back of Fenris’s throat, and he pressed his body against Dorian’s again, seizing his lips in a searing kiss with all the passion and desperation of the first. Dorian pulled the fastenings of Fenris’s tunic open with practiced hands, the two of them only breaking the kiss to pull the unnecessary clothing off. He slid his hands slowly around Fenris’s ribs and up his back, feeling the pull of magic from the markings, and the way each line was slightly raised compared to the unmarked skin around it. When his hands brushed the new markings on Fenris’s shoulder blades, Fenris grew tense in his arms.

 

Dorian broke from the kiss and pulled back just enough to examine Fenris’s face for any sign of discomfort. “Do they hurt?”

 

“The old ones do not bother me,” Fenris said quietly. “The new ones…”

 

“In that case, I will avoid touching the new ones,” Dorian supplied, understanding.

 

Fenris met his gaze, eyes brimming with a mixture of surprise and tenderness that Dorian had not expected to see there. “Of course,” Fenris breathed, just barely audible in the stillness.

 

Warmth swelled into Dorian’s chest. He lifted a hand to brush the hair from Fenris’s face, pressing their lips together again – firm, but forcing himself to be slower this time, gentler. It was completely beyond his experience, wanting someone this way and feeling as if, just maybe, he could allow himself to feel the depths of it while ignoring the looming thoughts of losing it all the next morning.

 

Fenris deepened the kiss, and Dorian gasped into it. He resumed unfastening Dorian’s robe little by little with one hand as he wrapped his other arm around Dorian and began guiding him towards the nearest bed.

 

They moved together at a now gradual pace, taking their time to be thorough, exploring every inch of each other’s bodies with hands and lips in the dim light, pausing only to rid themselves of any clothing that remained. Time felt as if it was flowing slowly, but Dorian reveled in it, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation of Fenris’s rough hands on his skin. He saw no point in rushing. Dorian’s newfound sense of patience was paying off, letting him feel to the fullest extent what he had been waiting all this time to feel.

 

At least until his reserve began to slip, the heat curling low in his abdomen becoming too insistent, too distracting. He rocked his hips against Fenris with a slowly increasing pace, running his hands up Fenris’s sides, sending his body arching and a soundless gasp escaping his throat with the subtle interplay of lyrium resonating with magic.

 

Fenris looked at Dorian with something devious in his eyes. He pushed Dorian back down onto the bed to roll on top of him, resting between his legs and trailing fingertips down his body, hand slipping down to lift one of his thighs as he whispered into Dorian’s ear, voice rough and deep as it trailed off, “May I...”

 

Dorian’s last threads of reserve snapped with a shuddering groan that pushed its way past his lips at the feeling of Fenris’s hot breath on his neck. “Yes,” he gasped in reply, desperate and breathless. “Please.” Fenris huffed a proud, alluring laugh, hoarse with desire, and his hand moved lower.

 

Everything after that became a blur, the world spinning around them in a rush of colour until only they remained. It was too much – Dorian’s head falling back when Fenris finally pushed inside of him, body arching up, desperate for more, more. Fenris’s pace was fast but not too fast, fervent yet gentle, careful as he trailed haphazard kisses up Dorian’s neck full of warmth and lust and something that Dorian allowed himself in the moment to believe was so much deeper than all of that. They tangled together, Dorian’s legs wrapping around Fenris’s waist, pulling him closer, hands grasping at his back, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin.

 

It felt as if it had been an eternity and yet hardly any time at all when Fenris’s body seized up, climax washing over him in waves as his vision went white and he bit hard at his lip to muffle the sound. Dorian followed soon after, unabashedly loud, and the two of them collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and beads of sweat and heavy breathing.

 

-

 

The lamp in the room blazed low, and the air held the chill of night, though neither of them seemed to mind. Dorian lay curled on his side beside Fenris, absently toying with a strand of Fenris’s hair between his fingers. Fenris tilted his head to watch him with affection in his eyes, the ghost of a melancholy smile on his lips before it faltered, and he looked away, gazing straight above at the ceiling.

 

Dorian chewed at the inside of his lip, caught between concern and the fear that Fenris’s sudden change in demeanor meant a return to reality – the reality that had always cast its shadows over Dorian, that this couldn’t last, that he would have to force himself to forget his feelings and pretend that none of this had ever happened. He knew that when it came to Fenris he had been deluding himself, allowing himself to hope, but even so he didn’t want the delusion to be over. Not just yet.

 

“I imagine you’ll be returning to Tevinter, after this,” Fenris said to the ceiling, his voice level but thick with an emotion that Dorian couldn’t quite pin down.

 

“Not just yet, actually,” Dorian answered truthfully.

 

Fenris sat up and glanced back at him with a glimmer of something that looked like hope in his eyes. “Where, then?” he asked. “…Skyhold?”

 

Dorian propped himself up on one elbow, watching Fenris’s expression with a guarded confusion. “That was my intention, yes,” he replied. “If the Inquisition still requires help, I would like to be there.”

 

“Good,” Fenris said, relief washing over his face and the tension leaving his shoulders as he cast his eyes away.

 

Dorian blinked. “Good?”

 

Fenris looked back to meet his gaze again, eyes filled with an intensity that robbed Dorian of his breath and sent his heartbeat skipping out of time. “I wish to remain at your side,” Fenris explained softly, unashamed, leaning back in to draw closer to Dorian, cupping his face gently with one hand.

 

“You… You do?” Dorian stuttered out in disbelief.

 

“Fool,” Fenris breathed fondly, before leaning in and pressing his lips gently to Dorian’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read all the way to the end!! I really hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I hope I'm not speaking too soon, but I have some thoughts that could possibly turn into a sequel, set post-Trespasser. Possibly. It will be a while before I can write it if I do actually end up writing it, but...  
> Please let me know if you might be interested in reading more.
> 
> And thanks again!!


End file.
